


A Place of No Return

by lyannas (crossfirehurricane)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8382964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/lyannas
Summary: Upon learning of his sister’s abduction, Brandon Stark is persuaded to practice patience at Brynden Tully’s behest. Together, they lead a search party that heads not for the Red Keep, but for Prince Rhaegar himself. This puts a wedge in Rhaegar’s plans and nearly throttles Lyanna’s dreams of freedom-- but only nearly. It falls to Ser Arthur Dayne to brave the task of escorting the wolfish lady to the Tower of Joy, and the pair embark on a journey that will seal their fates. They say that it’s the journey that’s important, not the destination; and indeed, it is the journey that makes all the difference.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> So, I've been working on this fic for a while now, and I'm excited to start sharing it with you all! It's a little different from what I've written in the past, certainly focuses on a different pairing than usual, and I intend to write it a little differently too. This is something of a niche pairing, but I've drummed up some support on Tumblr about it, so I know I'm doing this for more than just me ;)
> 
> This is a character-driven story, centered around a few choice characters and my interpretation of them. I'm writing them, and this story, based off as much canon as possible, changing events that I consider to be the most pivotal in canon in order to diverge and create something new. In the end notes, I will discuss what canon sources I referenced and my reasoning/justification for certain things I'm writing. Like I said, I'm paying this story extra attention, trying to get all the details right and in a way that makes the most sense.
> 
> I've tagged the main relationships as I see fit; while the premise certain relies on Rhaegar/Lyanna, I'm afraid that's not what this story's being written to analyze. The main relationship will be Arthur/Lyanna, and I plan to write them as responsibly as possible.
> 
> Without further ado, happy reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandon Stark rides away from Riverrun, toward it, then away again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy the first chapter! Follow me @lyannas on Tumblr for updates on the story, and to direct any questions, if you prefer that platform over this one.

 

 

Had Hoster Tully himself not insisted on making the trip to the inn with him, Brandon would have left much farther in the day. It was only a few hours’ ride from Riverrun to the Crossroads, one he could finish in two, and it meant it would be late enough in the day to throw back some drinks before escorting that blasted wedding party back to Riverrun. Had his own father not been among the wedding party, Brandon may have slept the day in as the lesser men escorted themselves to Riverrun. Yet Lord Rickard himself had come, and among the band were a few lords, the most esteemed among them Elbert Arryn, various members of Winterfell’s guard, and of course, his fickle little sister.

He knew she only came along for the sake of adventure; she didn’t get out of Winterfell nearly as much as she liked, and he had blathered on about the Riverlands enough to pique her interest. No doubt she would pester him to show her around the very second they arrived in Riverrun, but Brandon didn’t mind being pestered by her. Soon enough she too would be married, and he wouldn’t be able to hear her chattering anymore. _The honor will belong to Robert Baratheon, gods damn him._

This thought, as it often did, put him in a foul mood. He distracted himself by sharpening his blades out on the balcony of the room that had been provided for him. The air that passed over the riverbanks was pleasantly cool on his face and body, the latter still largely undressed, and the smell of muggy water was a refreshing change from the sharp tang of ice that often greeted him in mornings at Winterfell. Even so, Brandon was anxious to return north; it seemed no matter the scenery, Winterfell always found a way to call him home.

To avoid being fetched by a servant like a misguided child, Brandon donned his riding clothes and trudged down to the entrance of the castle to meet his chaperones. Lords Hoster Tully and Brynden Tully appeared poised to leave, a nearly identical flash of irritation passing over their faces upon catching sight of him. It was a wonder that they were able to stand so close when they had been quarreling like feral dogs just a day ago; Brynden had threatened to leave Riverrun before the wedding, but it seemed that something had happened to make him change his mind. Brandon wondered what it was like to have a brother that he disagreed with so intensely; both of his were quiet and soft-spoken. Even with Lyanna, their quarrels always stemmed from a light ribbing before descending into a madness that only transpired due to their headstrong natures. Yet everything between them was resolved within a day; the Tully brothers appear to hold onto grudges for much, much longer.

“Are you prepared to leave?” Hoster asked, shifting impatiently to his other foot. “The horses are saddled. It would be best to arrive early at the inn.”

“My lords, there is no reason for you two to accompany me,” Brandon insisted, trying once again to deter them from supervising him like wet-nurses who hovered over their charge. “The wedding party is not large enough to bother you both with it.”

“Aye, I suppose we can both sit on our arses and twiddle our thumbs before you came back,” Brynden Tully, the one they called Blackfish, replied with a half-smile. “We may not be as young as you, my lord, nor are we so old that we cannot spare time for a simple ride.”

“Let’s get on with it then, hm?” Hoster added hardly before his brother had finished his sentence. He was clearly both impatient and still cross with the Blackfish.

Swallowing another protest, Brandon resigned himself to his fate. His squire, Ethan Glover, was more enthusiastic about the situation, grinning as he greeted Brandon and set off to double check that the horses carried the essentials-- “the essentials” largely being enough skins of wine to make the conversation along the road more bearable.

He had made it out to the threshold, prepared to climb atop his horse when someone called his name: “Lord Brandon!” It was a high, feminine voice, and one that Brandon would need to get used to hearing for the rest of his life. He turned to see his caller.

“My lady,” he greeted Catelyn with a bow. “Have you come to see me off?”

Even now, dressed in a simple green gown, dark auburn hair in a plait down her back, his betrothed looked beautiful. Her wide blue eyes suited her fair, unblemished face, and her pretty head sat well on her rather shapely body. She had freckles that were visible on her collarbone and darted down in between her breasts. Brandon was always fond of freckles.

“I have, my lord,” she responded with a smile. “You have not left, and yet still I anxiously await your return.” Her voice was soft and lighter than Ashara’s sultry breaths or Barbrey’s low tones. It was the voice of a true southron lady, wrapped in sweetness and practiced courtesy.

There was only so much Brandon could do or say when Catelyn’s father and uncle stood by, watching and no doubt listening too. “I shall not be long, my lady,” he assured her with his easy smile, one a woman once described as _devilish_. “We will be wed on my return.” He closed that sentiment with a kiss upon her slim hand, and she accepted it with a pretty blush.

It seemed even the Lords of Tully approved of the exchange, as both were smiling atop their horses. Brandon climbed atop his own stallion and clicked his tongue twice, urging it into a trot. It was not long before Hoster pulled up beside him, poised to speak.

“When I go off, no matter how long that may be, I always find my Cat waiting for me at the gates, ready to leap into my arms,” the man recalled fondly, though Brandon had already begun to push his voice to the back of his mind, and the sound of his horse’s hooves to the front of it. “You’ll see when we return. She will run down and leap into my arms-- or your arms, perhaps. It is not entirely improper, as you two will be wed on the morrow…”

His horse huffed, and Brandon bit his tongue to keep from doing the same.

 

* * *

 

It was midday when Brandon’s party arrived at the Crossroads Inn. He had half expected to see the place fit to burst with his wedding guests, yet the main floor appeared to be surprisingly empty, missing even his sister, Lyanna. His father explained the marked absences briefly.

“Your sister demanded to see the Isle of Faces this morning,” Lord Rickard said gruffly, his displeasure made known by the way he referred to Lyanna as _your sister_. “She said she had come this far, and wished to make the pilgrimage. I sent a few men to escort her there, and they shall continue to Riverrun afterwards.”

“The Isle of Faces?” Brandon asked, furrowing his brows. “What would she want with that?”

“How should I know?” His father had answered abruptly.

Brandon chose to end the conversation at that; travelling clearly didn’t suit his father’s old bones, a fact proven further as the older men lagged behind on their horses, exchanging lordly conversation and gossip. Brandon led the group back toward Riverrun, with the amiable Elbert Arryn at his side. He was a young man, exceedingly plain of face with a head that had already begun to bald at the crown of it. He was also heir to the Vale, nephew to the much older Jon Arryn, whom Ned had been fostered under.

They had some things in common; both were the heirs to a kingdom, for one, though for Elbert it had been by chance, and for Brandon it was by destiny. Both enjoyed a good hunt. Both also drank a skin of wine each.

They spoke on and off about their respective homes ( _’Only an Arryn could love the Vale, I think,’_ Elbert admitted), and Brandon laughed about his siblings while Elbert wondered how it might be to have siblings of his own, looking up to him and admiring him ( _’Admire? Ha! Most of the time, they throw me dirty looks while Lya whaps me on the shoulder_ ’). On the topic of women, the lord fell rather silent ( _’What, have you no taste for cunt?’ ‘It’s not that, my lord, I just… Do not like to talk about it’_ ), while Brandon was given time to internally reminisce on the lovely women he had known.

“You are much different than your brother,” Elbert had commented at one point along the ride. “Eddard is rather… quiet, I suppose.”

Brandon laughed at the familiar comment. Even Ashara had told him as much, the day after the night they spent together: _Did you steal all the fire in your mother’s womb, and leave none for the brother who came after?_

“Aye, so I’ve been told,” Brandon returned with a grin. “‘Tis his nature. Saved my father from a number of headaches.”

“As your sister contributed to them?” The young lord returned with a chuckle. “Lady Lyanna never seemed to be where Lord Stark wanted her to be.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Brandon asked sharply, giving Elbert a warning look. The other man noticed, and shook his head quickly.

“Not at all-- It was rather endearing, in some respects. I’d imagine she’d need to be a little wild for her betrothed.” This second reminder of Robert Baratheon sinks his mood again. “Robert is certainly… a handful.”

Brandon ignored this, far from desirous of a conversation about the ill-reputed lord. It still grated on his nerves that his father would promise his sister to such a man; she surely deserved better than a whoring, reckless bull of a man that lived across the kingdom. Thinking on it only riled the rage inside him, while thinking of how she would no longer be a permanent figure at Winterfell saddened him greatly. He wished now that she hadn’t gone to the Isle, that he could be riding with her now, the two urging their horses on in a close race, her laugh carried by the wind.

Missing a meeting with her was an itch that Brandon could not scratch. Lyanna often liked to play at coldness and brevity, but their reunions were always warm. If Hoster had Catelyn to rush into his arms, as the man had recalled multiple times throughout the trip, then Brandon had Lyanna to wait at the gates of Winterfell and rain down kisses upon his face. He could not recall a single time that she did not greet him as such after an absence, and the thought sat as a thorn in his side.

More than anything, he wanted to tell her of the duel he had a fortnight past. The thought of it put a wicked smile on his face; that little man they called Petyr Baelish had been dressed in half a suit of armor and could hardly raise his sword above his waist which he challenged him for Catelyn’s hand. Brandon had taken his own armor off, pitying the boy enough to give him something of an advantage. Yet, it had still been far too easy-- the boy was stubborn, no doubt, and despite how much blood Brandon spilled, he had refused to yield. _I should have killed him quickly,_ the thought greeted him now, as it did at the time. _It would have been a mercy._ Had it not been for his betrothed’s soft heart, he might have killed the boy and been done with it.

He nearly did-- in the thick of the fight, with the sight of red blood muddying the riverbanks, something in Brandon had broken free. The last blow he dealt the boy was meant to be fatal; he wanted to kill him, so badly that he could taste his blood in his mouth. Catelyn-- or some woman --had screamed, and pulled him from his bloodthirst. His blow fell short; it was deep, yes, deep enough to cut through his pathetic mail and nearly carve him open from chest to navel. A little deeper, and Brandon would have found his heart, followed by his entrails, and all would have spilled out into the riverbank.

 _I made her a promise,_ Brandon recalled bitterly. _I promised Catelyn I would not kill him. Perhaps I should stop letting women get the better of me._ Her silk favor of pale blue was still back in his rooms at Riverrun, useless and forgotten. _I should have given it to the boy as a going away present. Something to remember me by._

The sound of a rider coming from behind at a quick gallop distracts Brandon from his thoughts. He pulls on the reins to bring his horse to a stop, turning to see who it was that came at them so quickly.

It was a man slumped over on his horse, clutching at his side. He had ridden straight to Rickard, and spoke to him now; the pain he was in was evident even from Brandon’s vantage point. He urges his horse over to where the man spoke to the other lords, and watched as other men descended to help the man.

“...They were six in total, but formidable warriors, m’lord. They had us overwhelmed and took us by surprise; we are not dead, but some are gravely injured. The others have tried to ride after them. I came to report this as soon as I could.” He coughed violently, and Brandon could see blood stain that hand that gripped his side. “Prince Rhaegar-- he and two knights of the Kingsguard left before the thick of the fighting. He took m’lady with him.”

“Lyanna?” Brandon asked, his heart stopping in his chest. “The prince _took_ Lyanna?”

The man looked over with wide eyes, surprised to see him. He nodded slowly. “He pulled her atop his horse and his men attacked the rest of us.” The man cringed, and coughed again.

Words escaped Brandon; with their flight came a fire that stole through every inch of him. He gripped his reins hard enough for the leather to bite into his skin, ground his teeth until his jaw hurt. He could see the men around him speaking still, his father looking grave as he continued to ask questions, but Brandon could hear nothing. It was as if his head were plunged underwater, all noise muffled in his ears.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Lyanna. He saw her as a girl of two, running behind him in Winterfell, as fast as her short legs would carry her. He saw her as a girl of four, crying into their mother’s skirts the morning he left to be fostered in Barrowtown. _Don’t cry, Lya, I’ll come and visit, I promise,_ he had reassured her as he wiped her tears away. He saw her as a girl of ten, grinning down at him as she rode circles around him. _I may be little, but I’m a better rider than you,_ she had quipped, utterly proud of herself. He saw her as he had wanted to see her now, riding beside him, teasing him about his upcoming wedding as he teased her about hers. He also saw her as she might be, right now, that very minute: his sweet sister with her body pinned to the ground beneath Rhaegar Targaryen, crying and screaming with no savior in sight.

The sound comes back to his ears in a rush.

“I will kill him,” Brandon swore; every head turned to look at him. He jumped down from his horse, hands balled into fists. “I will kill the bloody prince with my own two hands. I’ll break his fucking neck-- Where did he go? I’ll ride him down now and kill him. Where did he go? Answer me! Where--”

“Brandon!” His father’s voice boomed. “We’ll not ride him down. You will not lay a finger on him. We must deal with this through--”

“He’s laying all ten of his fingers on my sister-- your daughter!” Brandon returned loudly, beginning to see red. The thought of it, accompanied by unpleasant images, made him feel as if he were being torn at the seams. “He could be hurting her right now. Not ten leagues from here, he could be raping her-- what else would he do with her? You would have me be meek as he puts his hands on her?”

“I would have you be _rational_!” His father shouted in return. “It is possible that the prince is heading for King’s Landing himself. If Lyanna is with him, then she will be there as well.”

“I too would say they are headed for King’s Landing, my lord,” the rider said, eyes flickering between father and son. “The men he had with him-- men of the Crownlands, all of them. They rode off in the direction of the Kingsroad.”

“Then you must ride to King’s Landing,” his father decided, looking to him with eyes hard and dark as flint. “Alert the king of the situation, but approach him carefully, Brandon--”

“Why don’t _you_ ride to King’s Landing? I want nothing to do with the king-- it’s Rhaegar I want. _He_ has Lyanna!” Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna. His sweet sister’s name was screaming in his head, and her voice soon followed.

“For once in your life, _think_ , Brandon! You are the faster rider, and my heir. You will go in my place. You will bring the situation to the king’s attention. Mad as he is, he cannot deny us Lyanna.”

“You call him mad in one breath and ask me to cow at his feet in the next?”

“Brandon,” his father warned.

“Does your daughter’s honor mean nothing to you?” Brandon laughed mirthlessly at this dark joke. “Nay, it cannot, for you have promised her to a whoring, blustering, witless--”

“BRANDON!” His father’s thunderous voice rends the very air around them, sucking the breath out of Brandon’s words. “You will do as I say. You will ride to King’s Landing, notify the king of what has been taken from us, and wait for justice to run its course.”

 _But he can deny us justice, can’t he?_ Brandon fumed internally, begrudgingly accepting the task, but not the method. If Rhaegar was there, then Brandon had no intention of exchanging words when only blows would do. He would kill the prince in his own home, smile as his blood stained the walls of the Red Keep an even darker red. _I will see to justice myself._

“Very well, father. I’ll ride to King’s Landing,” Brandon said through gritted teeth. “I’ll ride there, and bring her home.”

_And while I’m there, I’ll smash Rhaegar’s pretty face in and make a crown out of his broken teeth._

“I’m glad to hear it,” his father returned gruffly, appearing only a little embarrassed at the row they had before all these other men. “You should take some men with you.”

“I will go, my lord,” Elbert Arryn said. “I will represent the Vale in this matter. My squire, Lord Kyle Royce, shall come along.”

“I too will accompany him,” Ethan announced. “I would follow my Lord Brandon into any dragon’s pit.”

“My lords, I think this is a rash action,” Lord Hoster spoke up, so far the only voice of dissent. “Come back to Riverrun. Let us discuss this matter when our heads are cooled; to rush this may be a great folly.”

“We’ve already wasted enough time,” Brandon shot back, uncaring of how harsh his tone was. “I will not see Riverrun again until my sister is safe again.” _And Rhaegar’s head hanging from my saddlebags._

“I think you will be making a grave mistake, my lord,” Hoster returned cautiously, looking to Rickard. “There is no telling what young Lord Brandon may do, even with good intention.”

“Send one of your trusted men along with him then, Lord Hoster,” Rickard returned, unmoved. “Let him try to bring reason to the king, and to my son.”

The pair exchanged a heavy look before Hoster grimaced, and shook his head. “Very well.” He turned to his men. “Which of you would--”

“Just a moment, brother,” Blackfish spoke up. Brandon nearly had a mind to throttle him for making matters go on even longer. “I fought alongside our king when he was but a squire-- that was a long time ago. From what I hear, he has changed much since then. We cannot look at him as an ally. If his son has taken away the Lady Lyanna, then we must see the father as our enemy too.”

“Aerys has little love for his son,” Rickard pointed out gruffly. “Rhaegar has worked against him in private ever since he had married Elia Martell. He will not defend his son in this matter, especially when he has taken one of our own.”

“Aye, but he is _mad_ , my lord, as you have said yourself,” Blackfish returned. “You do not know what kind of mood your son may find him in when he rides into King’s Landing. You do not know which of young Brandon’s words will rub him the wrong way; the boy is full of fire, and full of love for his sister. That much is clear to me. I do not think sending him as an envoy to King’s Landing is a solution.”

“It is _my_ daughter’s honor at stake, and _my_ son whom I send. I do not care to hear another solution.”

“Very well, my lord, go about it a woman’s way if you wish. Send men kneeling at his feet and flashing their pretty smiles to get a mad king to sway.” The Blackfish was mocking them, Brandon realized, and it grated on him almost as horribly as it grated on his father.

“A _woman’s_ way?” Rickard shouted in return. “Diplomacy is not a _woman’s_ tool. Negotiating is not a _woman’s_ trade.”

“A man would ride to save his daughter, not beg a king to do it for him,” Brynden said before nodding his head in Brandon’s direction. “Your son has a man’s fire. He would rather ride down the one who took his sister than paw at the king’s robes. Let him.”

A tense silence passes over the men, one marked by the harsh set of his father’s jaw.

“I want to gut the bastard,” Brandon said aloud. He did not think of how treasonous his words were, how quickly they could earn him his death. He could only think of Lyanna. “What can I do to see that it is done, and quickly?”

“See, my lord. Your son cannot be sent to King’s Landing with his tongue so free,” Blackfish pointed out to his father. “I should like to insist on a different tactic.”

“Speak, then. Say it quickly,” his father returned, clearly displeased but seemingly convinced by Blackfish’s words.

“Lord Brandon is a good rider. I will take him myself, along with other men, to scout the area; if Prince Rhaegar is headed to King’s Landing, then we will track his movements and be sure of his course. We must entertain the idea that he may head elsewhere; if we keep him in our sights, it would make matters easier to bring him to justice in a swift manner, should the king be unsure of his son’s whereabouts. Meanwhile, you,” he nodded towards Rickard. “Shall ride to King’s Landing, but not before you remain in Riverrun a little longer. A slower pace may be a boon to our cause, before we learn of Rhaegar’s plans. Perhaps the matter can even be settled before we take it to the king.”

“I think my brother’s plan is sound,” Hoster said, though by the look on his face, it seemed to displease him that he found himself in agreement with him. “Though I question whether or not it is wise to send Lord Brandon as part of the scouting party.”

Brandon nearly snorted. “I am not an animal, to be spoken about in front of me like I cannot understand. I am a man, and better rider than all of you. I will search for my sister and bring her back, or I will die in the attempt.” 

“There will be no death, Brandon,” his father warned with dark eyes. “If you value your sister’s life, you will see to it that not a hair on Rhaegar’s head is harmed.”

 _Blood must have blood,_ Brandon mused, keeping this dark thought to himself. _Blood on my sister’s thighs will mean blood on my sword, make no mistake._

Brandon smiled serenely. “As you say, father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Brandon Stark. Really, I do. There's very little we know about him, but what we do know gives away what was most important about him. Hot-headed, wolf-blooded, womanizing, and loved his sister enough to die for her:
> 
>  _“He was on his way to Riverrun when...” Strange, how telling it still made her throat grow tight, after all these years. “...when he heard about Lyanna, and went to King’s Landing instead. It was a rash thing to do.” She remembered how her own father had raged when the news had been brought to Riverrun. The gallant fool, was what he called Brandon._  
>  Jaime poured the last half cup of wine. “He rode into the Red Keep with a few companions, shouting for Prince Rhaegar to come out and die. But Rhaegar wasn’t there. Aerys sent his guards to arrest them all for plotting his son’s murder. The others were lords’ sons too, it seems to me.” Catelyn, ACoK
> 
> According to the AWoIaF app, Brandon was escorting his wedding party to Riverrun when he learned of his sister's abduction. Hoster was apparently in Riverrun in this time, and there's no mention of Brynden at all, which led me to believe that Brynden may have been in the midst of a quarrel with Hoster at the time. So, in order to change Brandon's route, this is where I tweaked things. I sent both Hoster and Brynden along with Brandon; Hoster alone may not be enough to get Brandon to change his course (because really, Brandon doesn't seem the type for words), but Brynden is a man of action and would probably be a better chaperone with a less direct way of dealing with things that keeps Brandon out of the Red Keep.
> 
> My belief is that Brandon was never meant to storm the Red Keep to ask Rhaegar to "come out and die". I believe Brandon was sent, along with other men, to simply talk to the king, and it was Brandon who escalated the situation out of passion-- resulting in all their deaths (except for Ethan Glover, who dies later at the Tower of Joy).
> 
> As for those men with him, I don't believe they were all his friends. Ethan Glover was his squire-- so that's one friend. Elbert Arryn, however, I believe came down with the wedding party and first met Brandon then. He accompanied Brandon in order to represent House Arryn in the matter, not out of any particular loyalty to Brandon. Same for Jeffory Mallister (a Riverrun bannerman) and Kyle Royce (a Vale bannerman, likely Elbert's friend/squire). Looking at this lot, it's hard to believe that any of them had particularly strong feelings about Brandon or Lyanna, and likely never intended to piss off Aerys. But then, of course, hot-headed Brandon seals their fates anyways.
> 
> So in this verse, instead of making a beeline for King's Landing to "talk" to Aerys, they track Rhaegar + company instead. Brynden is a seasoned warrior who's fought alongside Aerys in his youth; in the books, we see him as someone wise, who knows how to pick his battles, and knows how to /fight/ those battles. I think he would not trust Brandon the way Rickard might, and puts his anger to work rather than to words. Tracking Rhaegar would certainly be more effective than trying to get Aerys to hunt his own son (on /House Stark's/ behest, of all houses).
> 
> I'll go into it more later in the notes of a later chapter, but I don't think Rhaegar was ever even at King's Landing to apprehend. I have a hard time imagining that Rhaegar would take Lyanna to the Red Keep and put her right under the whole court's (including Elia) nose. I think they cut through King's Landing, but did not stop there, and headed straight for Dorne.
> 
> As for the gang that aided and abetted the kidnapping on the Isle of Faces, I took that straight from TWoIaF:
> 
> _With the coming of the new year, the crown price had taken to the road with half a dozen of his closest friends and confidants, on a journey that would ultimately lead them back to the riverlands. Not ten leagues from Harrenhal, Rhaegar fell upon Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, and carried her off, lighting a fire that would consume his house and kin and all those he loved-- and half the realm besides._
> 
> The place "not ten leagues from Harrenhal", while never described, is most like the Isle of Faces. Considering that this occurred just before Brandon's wedding to Catelyn, it's most likely that Lyanna was part of the wedding party that Brandon was escorting. Brandon finds out about his sister's kidnapping on the way back to Riverrun, while escorting his wedding party. By this line of reasoning, Lyanna had gone to the Isle of Faces, most likely with her father's permission and with her own group of men, to meet with Rhaegar. Men then came back from the scuffle at the Isle of Faces to report this news to Brandon, Brandon springs into action, and so on.
> 
> Why the Isle of Faces? It's an island full of weirwood trees. Lyanna could meet with Rhaegar on the pretense of a religious pilgrimage. 
> 
> Let me know what you all think! Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna takes her first steps toward freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to update weekly or as close to weekly as I can. Enjoy! :)
> 
> [Tumblr link](http://lyannas.tumblr.com/post/152882054464/a-place-of-no-return-chapter-2-summary-upon).

 

It is not until perhaps an hour later, when they finally stopped in a small, riverside town did Lyanna finally speak to her captors.

“My father’s men,” she said breathlessly as she climbed down from the horse she shared with Rhaegar, “They have not been harmed?” She caught only a glimpse of the skirmish that ensued after their escape, of Rhaegar’s men and her father’s men drawing swords and preparing to descend on each other. Her stomach twisted at the memory; if anything happen to her father’s men, it would be on her hands.

“Fear not, my lady; anything that has been done to them will only slow them down for some hours,” Rhaegar assured her as he came down from the horse too. “I swear to you, my men would not do lasting harm. I only needed them to keep your father’s men occupied while we made our escape.”

Lyanna nodded uncertainly, her spirits lifting ever so slightly at this small comfort. The thrill of the predetermined abduction had not been as she had expected. Instead of excitement, Lyanna was filled with an overwhelming sense of anxiety. _This is what you wanted,_ she reminded herself. _He offered to take you away from your worries, and you accepted._

“Come, we cannot linger long,” Rhaegar said, taking gentle hold of her elbow. “It will be best to fetch you a horse of your own; you are more than an able rider, and I fear you’ll find the journey quite tiring if spent sharing my saddle.”

“The man we spoke to is right up the road, your grace.” Ser Arthur suddenly appeared at Rhaegar’s side, his violet eyes examining the nearly-empty village with extreme scrutiny. “He has our horse, and we have his coin.”

“Again, my lady, we cannot linger long,” Rhaegar reminded her kindly. “Let us meet your horse.”

She was a fine chestnut mare with large, soulful black eyes and a loud whinny. Her body was one built for plowing fields and lugging carts, but she could be fast if she put her mind to it. Lyanna was certain she could get her to do just that; everyone said she had a way with horses, and she agreed with them.

It was Rhaegar who paid for her from a pouch fat with coin. Lyanna watched him with an unexplainable sense of guilt, silently cursing herself for not bringing her own coin. He had already done so much for her-- he had already promised to do _everything_ for her.

Everything, including stealing her away from her family, accompanying her to Dorne, housing her in one of his keeps, and seeing to her every desire. He had heard her laments of Robert, promised her that she would find greater freedom in Dorne, and insisted that he would keep her place secret for as long as she desired.

 _I will never be able to repay him._ The unwelcome thought dawned on her as she stroked the mare between her eyes. He was doing so much for her without asking for a single thing in return. _How do I repay him? What do I repay him with?_

“You’ve taken a liking to her.”

Lyanna turned around abruptly to face the man who had gotten her this far. Rhaegar had his hair tied back and hidden in his cloak. It was not much by way of disguise, seeing as sers Arthur and Oswell flanked him in their rather unique white armor. It would not take much to deduce that it was the prince or someone of equal importance in the vicinity, but perhaps he was not trying to hide.

“I have, your grace. Thank you,” she said shyly. Though she had been more than bold with him in their written correspondence, Lyanna found herself bashful around him now. “I was just wondering to myself how I might repay you for this. For all of this.”

He smiled, and the sight was enough to dazzle her. He was an incredibly beautiful man, tall and lithe and shone more brilliant than the sun. It made his interest in her all the more impactful; if this beautiful prince was willing to go to such lengths for one of his subjects, then what would he do for someone more lovely, or more important?

“Your happiness is repayment enough, my lady,” he said kindly, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It is high time now we continued onwards. Dorne is still quite a ways away, and we must cover as much ground as we can before sunset. Ah, but one more thing, my lady.” As if summoned, Arthur returns to his side holding a pile of what appeared to be linens. It is passed from Arthur, to Rhaegar, and then finally, to her. “I have a strange favor to ask of you,” he said. The words sent her heart into a frenzy-- was he to state his price now? “I must ask you to dress as my squire; we will travel more peaceably this way. ‘Tis far less questionable to see the crown prince riding with his squire rather than a strange woman.”

Lyanna’s heart rate returned to normal. What she thought were linens was actually a folded stack of clothes; Lyanna takes them from him. “Certainly,” she conceded with a nervous smile. “I… where shall I change?”

“The man who sold us his horse has offered use of his home. It will be empty, of course.” Rhaegar smiled kindly before leading her to the door of a very small, thatch-roofed cottage.

Lyanna took her leave and scrambled inside. It was as small as it looked; there was room enough for a small bed, a table, and a chair, but little else. The floors were unpaved and made of dirt. Lyanna tried not to be surprised. This was just how the smallfolk lived: with very little. That was why they came flocking to Winterfell and the winter town when the snows fell, for food and warmth and comforts only a lord could provide. _But this man is not a northman,_ she reminded herself with a twinge of pity. _Southron lords don’t take care of their people as we do._

Not wanting to become upset dwelling on the thought, and mindful of their schedule, Lyanna quickly slipped out of her kirtle. Her shift and boots followed until she remained only in her smallclothes and the pair of trousers she always wore under her dresses. The clothes provided for her, Lyanna quickly, discovered, were enormous on her-- the tunic was long and billowy and threatened to slip down her front and reveal her breasts, as small as they were. In the process of pulling them on, she did exactly that many times, until she begrudgingly donned her shift beneath the tunic. The trousers she did not even bother to try on, knowing full well she’d swim in them; for Lyanna was already wearing her own pair. The provided boots went unworn too, as she had her own that fit perfectly well.

A wide brimmed, floppy hat had been part of the clothes pile. Lyanna donned it, and tried to stuff as much of her hair as possible beneath it-- she had been growing out her hair for a long while now, when she had once been used to cutting it short, above her shoulders. Her father did not like it, called it boyish, and insisted she stop the practice after Harrenhal. Lyanna now wished she had denied him in this, as she had done with so many of his other rules.

Lyanna emerged from the cottage, hoping she did not look as ridiculous as she felt. It was not the act of wearing men’s clothes that made her uneasy; she had borrowed Benjen’s things plenty of times, herself. It was that stupid tunic, billowy and overlarge which had her feeling like a strong wind would pick her up and carry her away. “I’m dressed,” she called to the gathered men, whose backs were to her. They turned around at once, each of them laboriously taking in her new appearance. For what was meant to be a disguise, Lyanna felt thoroughly exposed.

“I either make a pretty boy or an ugly girl,” Lyanna commented sourly when she saw Arthur Dayne hiding a smile behind his hand. She felt her face burn.

Rhaegar chuckled good-naturedly. “It will do. It’s better for us to travel with a pretty squire instead of a pretty girl, I think.”

“Perhaps not in Dorne,” Oswell remarked with an unsettling grin. “Men have a taste for such things, there.”

“Oh, is that right, Oswell?” Arthur returned with a raise of his brows. If he took offense to the comment, it did not show, as he wore the hint of a smile still.

“Well, you’re the Dornishman, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell us?” Oswell grinned more broadly and gave a short bark of laughter.

“Ignore them,” Rhaegar said softly, taking hold of her elbow as he led her back to her horse. “If the disguise becomes too uncomfortable at any point, let me know. We can try and think of something else.”

“I rather prefer this to the gown I was wearing.” She stuffed said gown into her saddlebag, along with the spare pair of trousers. “Particularly if we shall be travelling all the way to Dorne.”

“You are a practical woman, Lyanna Stark,” Rhaegar said as he climbed atop his horse. “That is why I’m so fond of you.”

Lyanna does not understand why his words make her shiver. To keep her mind off the feeling, she looked back over to her new horse, which had already been saddled for her. As she did, she could not help but think of the mare she left behind at God’s Eye. She had been Lyanna’s second-favorite horse in Winterfell. She hoped someone from the wedding party she was travelling with would take care of her. Perhaps Brandon would, once he met up there.

 _Brandon._ The thought of her brother leaves her with a pinch of guilt in her stomach. By now, he was no doubt going mad wondering where she had gone off to. He could be quite the fool when he was livid, but if he had a lick of sense he would slow down and think before sending people after her. There was no good way in relaying that she did not wish to be found at the time of the rendezvous; Rhaegar had simply swept her up onto his horse and they rode off God’s Eye without a glance backwards to those who had accompanied her there.

Rhaegar said he would take care of it, though. He said he would explain it all to them-- even her father. He promised he would not give away her location unless she willed it, and as of right now, she did not.

As she climbed atop her horse, Ser Arthur pulled up beside her on his own stallion. Her chest swelled with the same sense of awe she felt when she first saw him at Harrenhal; at the time she had always been yards away from him, too far to introduce herself or speak to him at all. Now here he was, the Sword of the Morning, the Smiling Knight’s bane, the most famous knight of the Kingsguard, and he was riding here beside her.

“Are you ready?” He asked, his voice and expression stoic. She always hesitated to call him handsome; he was certainly not ugly, nor was he beautiful like Rhaegar or striking like Robert. He had a strong jaw, a broken nose, and a scar through one eyebrow. His hair and eyes were nearly like Rhaegar’s-- but only nearly. Arthur’s hair was a darker blond, and his eyes a lighter purple. In some lights, she supposed, they could almost be brothers. No-- half-brothers. 

Lyanna snapped out of her admiring long enough to respond. “I am.”

He nodded and urged his horse onward; Lyanna did the same, keeping in step with him. The notion of being so near to him had not yet lost its luster, and she found herself still thinking about it. _Where is Benjen to see me now! He would turn green with envy._ The two had admired him greatly, and often whispered of what they would ask him should they ever meet. She could ask him anything now that he was only an arm’s length away. Yet out of all of the questions that came to mind, her mouth blurted out the least intelligent:

“Where are we going?” She blushed almost as soon as she had said it. “I mean, I know we are headed to Dorne, but where exactly?”

He looked ahead to Rhaegar on his steed in front of him before turning back to her. “A place near Starfall, my lady. It’s called Prince’s Pass.”

Starfall-- Arthur’s home. She remembered that much. “Will you see your family while we are there?”

“No, I think not. There is no time to linger.” She could sense she was losing his interest, and quickly. Her mind shuffled through the list in her head before haphazardly choosing one.

“What is there in Prince’s Pass? Are there many villages, or is it like a city?” Lyanna bit the inside of her cheek-- another stupid question. _Stupid, stupid._

“It’s a path through the red mountains,” he answered as conservatively as before. “There is a tower there.”

“The tower of joy,” Rhaegar completed ahead of them. He had slowed his horse down so he may trot on the other side of her. “It belongs to my family; it will make for a good place to stay. No one shall know where to find you.”

He grinned, but her fair mood dropped. _Another favor._ It seems they were only piling up. “Thank you, your grace. You are far too generous,” Lyanna gushed anxiously. 

“My Lady Lyanna, did we not refer to each other by name in our letters? You will call me Rhaegar.”

It was more of a command than a suggestion, but Lyanna was in no position to deny him. “Thank you, Rhaegar.” The smile he pays her turns her cheeks crimson. He was handsome, intelligent, kind-- with the uneasiness of their earlier events passed, Lyanna realized she might even be in love with him. This notion in and of itself had her feeling rather shameful; he was married, and with two children no less. What they shared was a friendship, a special bond, and she was careful not to let herself wish it was more. They were girlish thoughts, foolish and selfish. If she bowed to them, she would be just as bad as Robert-- no, worse. Lyanna would be an interloper between man and wife if she dared cross such a boundary.

Still, it bothered her. It made no sense, really, why Rhaegar would do this for her. In his letters he admitted great interest in her, proclaimed that he desired to see her happy and able to choose her own way. Then he offered to whisk her away her orderly life, away from Robert, and Lyanna accepted knowing it was the only way. If she ran on her own, she would have no place to go and no way to support herself. There was no Night’s Watch for women, and she followed entirely the wrong faith to submit herself to being a septa. Rhaegar’s way was the only way. 

 _But what does he want in return?_ The nagging, traitorous voice of reason slipped into her mind again. _Men don’t do anything for nothing, and certainly not princes. You will pay a price for this-- when he asks it of you, will you refuse?_

The thought plagued her now as it hadn’t before. To distract herself, Lyanna urged her horse into a quicker gallop, nosing past the others. _Rhaegar is good, and kind, and true,_ she told that treacherous voice in the back of her mind. _He had promised to see me well taken care of. He has said he wants nothing in return._

The voice returned: _Would his wife approve of what he’s doing for a silly little girl?_

As always, the thought of Elia Martell shamed her. The woman did not deserve to be humiliated as she was at Harrenhal, even if Lyanna had earned her laurels. Yet, if Rhaegar was here with her, then surely it was on his wife’s blessing? He would not go to Dorne without telling her, or so she told herself. Moreover, Lyanna had no intention of stealing the princess’s husband-- she merely wanted to be rid of her future one.

“My lady, slow down!” A voice called from behind her. Lyanna pulled up on the reins, and the horse came to a slow halt. The men surrounded her once more; she saw Rhaegar laughing. 

“You are an impressive rider, Lyanna, but I fear it should be us who lead-- unless you know the way?” Rhaegar’s tone was one of jest, with no malice behind it.

“Oh-- I apologize,” Lyanna said, flustered.

“Moreover, your hat is nearly off your head,” he added, still smiling.

Lyanna’s hand flew to the wide-brimmed hat, which had dumped most of her hair about her shoulders.

“My hair is too long for this hat,” Lyanna explained in a mumble, hurried it stuffing it back under. “Perhaps I should cut it?”

“Even the warrior queen Visenya wore her hair long,” Rhaegar said thoughtfully. “It suits you, as it suited her, I’m sure.”

Lyanna tried not to react at the compliment. “If you say so,” she said with what she hoped was a nonchalant shrug. On the inside, though, it felt as if her whole body was burning. “Might I ask which direction we are headed in?”

“We are on the Kingsroad, headed for King’s Landing,” Arthur replied stonily, clearly not as impressed by her riding.

“Well, not _for_ King’s Landing, but around it,” Rhaegar added. “We would attract too much attention in the city. For now, we shall ride until nightfall, find ourselves a place to camp, and continue when dawn breaks.”

Lyanna stole a glance behind her, to the ground they had already covered. She was really doing this; she was really running away. Away from home, away from family, away from Robert Baratheon, far, far away. She would travel through lands she had only heard of, see sights she had only dreamed of, and ride with men of legend and song. An unbidden rush of elation finally surged through her. _It shall be the world’s greatest adventure,_ she told herself. _Is this not what I wanted-- to be free?_

She turned eyes to the open road ahead. “Will you lead the way, Rhaegar?” Lyanna asked the prince with a smile of her own.

“I would be honored to.” He was still smiling as he passed her, and Lyanna spared no time in keeping pace beside him. This would all make a wonderful story one day-- and not a stupid one like Old Nan’s, but a _real_ story, one she would be proud to tell. _Lyanna Stark, the girl who ran-- No, that’s stupid,_ she argued with herself. _Lyanna Stark… Lyanna Stark…_ She did not have a poet’s tongue like Rhaegar, to think up some fancy moniker. She did have her name, though. Perhaps that was all she could ever want: for people to hear her name, and know who she was, what she had done, where she had been.

 _Lyanna Stark._ That was it, she decided. That was more than enough. The thought was enough to keep her smiling until nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written before on tumblr what my theory is on why Lyanna ran, but naturally I can't locate any of my writings on it right now, so I'll link you all to [this post](http://lyannas.tumblr.com/post/148725201179/joannalannister-poorshadowspaintedqueens), which puts together my thoughts. TL;DR I don't think Lyanna ran for love. I think Lyanna ran to escape what would have been a disastrous marriage with Robert. I think Lyanna kept up a correspondence with Rhaegar, who wanted her to bear his third child should Elia be unable to, and Rhaegar took advantage of her desire for freedom from Robert, as well as her trust in him, and lured her to the Tower of Joy under that pretense. 
> 
> Rhaegar was, of course, [obsessed with prophecy](http://lyannas.tumblr.com/post/118407194269/why-is-it-so-implausible-that-rhaegar-and-lyanna). He had been chasing after it ever since he was a child, and would have stopped at nothing in order to fulfill it. I also do not think that a 15 year old girl would be too keen to run away from one marriage and into the arms of a married man to be his incubator, so I do not think Lyanna was ever aware of the prophecy. I don't think she ever intended to have sex with him, but once she found herself [entirely alone and isolated from the rest of the world](http://lyannas.tumblr.com/post/123715332179/i-think-one-of-the-main-issues-i-have-with-rhaegar), she would have been hard pressed to refuse him-- moreover, she may have seen it as repayment for what he'd done to get her to freedom thus far. Of course, that freedom proves to be a false one, and therefore their sexual encounters can only be seen as performed under dubious consent at best.
> 
> As for Lyanna and Rhaegar loving each other, I just don't think that's genuinely possible under their circumstances. 
> 
> The posing-as-a-squire idea is admittedly not mine, but in fact is inspired by something @joannalannister on tumblr asked me once :)
> 
> Let me know what you all think!


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The travelers are intercepted, and Lyanna must make a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I hope to be more regular than this in the future.

 

They did not ride past King’s Landing as Lyanna thought they would; instead, they rode into the city, sighted by everyone in the streets. Between the white armored knights and the silver prince, Lyanna knew she was as inconspicuous as could be. No one paid her a second glance; the smallfolk instead sung their praises and expressed their grievances toward their prince.

Lyanna watched him as he took the attention in stride. He placed coin into the hands of beggars and rode through the crowds with effortless grace all while sporting a serene smile. It was no wonder the people loved him so; though their faces were so very different from one another, Lyanna had heard only words of admiration.

Having been bombarded by people, Lyanna did not take the time to examine the capital as she desired, but what she did see did not impress her. The roads were filthy, and there were far too many beggars on the streets-- elderly women, blind men, little children, all opened their hands pleading for some sort of charity. She had never seen so many destitute in her life. It came as a shock to see that there was no one to care for them, but perhaps there were too many to care for. King’s Landing was not the winter town, not even when the latter was filled to the brim with people. King’s Landing was far, far bigger.

They found their respite in an unmarked building, where their horses are taken away to the yard behind it. This place was unlike the bare cottage that Lyanna had changed in; it was filled with overstuffed couches, ornate tables, lacquered candlesticks, and fine rugs. There was a spicy smell wafting through the air that reminded Lyanna of the incense a septa at Harrenhal had burned.

“Where are we?” Lyanna asked when she had not received any information. “Does someone live here?”

“A friend,” Rhaegar replied cryptically. “Or rather, someone who knows how to be discreet.”

“Are we going to the castle?” Lyanna hoped she did not sound too naive-- but she truly didn’t know what they were doing here.

“No. We’ve been sighted in the city; that’s all we came here to do.”

The young man who took their horses entered the room from a back door. He clumsily made his way over to the men, though his eyes focused on no one, and his body was not turned toward any of them.

“You know the orders you’ve been given?” Rhaegar asked the man.

“Aye, I’ve it all laid out in the other room, ser,” the man spoke softly. “The ‘orses are in the back. The armor’s in the room.”

 _He’s blind,_ Lyanna realized rather suddenly, _and he called Rhaegar ‘ser’._

“Thank you,” Rhaegar said warmly, but the man did not glow with joy at the attention the way the other smallfolk did outside. He gave a half bow and clambered out the door from whence he came.

Arthur led the way into a room off to the side, Rhaegar and Oswell following him. Lyanna had received no invitation, but she followed on their heels to see what the room contained. Inside there were three plain sets of armor, all piled unceremoniously into a corner, remarkably plain clothes laid out on the single bed, as well as four black cloaks; two meant to be clasped onto armor, and two hooded ones.

Without warning, the knights began to undo their armor. Loud clatters echoed throughout the room as they dropped pieces of their white, scaled armor to the floor. Lyanna nearly averted her eyes away from Ser Arthur as his breastplate came off, as she seemed to have forgotten that knights wore clothes beneath their armor. It was hard to imagine that with the Kingsguard; their armor seemed to her to be an extension of themselves.

“May I ask what’s going on?” Lyanna inquired as politely as she could over the noise of falling metal.

Rhaegar looked to her as if surprised by her appearance. “My apologies, my lady. I’ve done a poor job of explaining myself,” he said in a soft voice before he led her by the elbow out of the room and away from the noise. “As you might imagine, it would not do to travel to Dorne with two white knights in tow. I fear their armor, while beautiful, is rather obvious. We want to be tracked to King’s Landing and no further; then we must travel the rest of the way garnering as little attention as possible.”

Lyanna nodded. That made sense. “What about that man who was just here? Was he your friend?”

Rhaegar answered with a soft smile. “My friend does not like to make himself seen.”

This half-answer only puzzled her further, so she gave up on that front. She glanced into the room to see the knights pulling on the sets of plain steel armor, while their beautiful scaled armor was scattered on the floor. For some reason, her heart ached to see it there. “Will they take their white armor with them?”

Rhaegar glanced at the armor in question. “On the packhorse, yes.”

“How will you hide your hair?” She wondered if this was too many questions; Brandon would always snap at her to stop asking questions whenever she interrogated him over something that interested her.

“The hood on a travelling cloak will be enough; we will be keeping off busy roads, and out of taverns. The fewer eyes on us, the better.”

This level of secretiveness both excited and frightened her. A silly combination, as she had embarked on this journey in hopes of hiding-- hiding among people, that is. Lyanna took another glance at her companions. _Three men, like my brothers,_ Lyanna told herself. _Perhaps I may grow as close to them as I did my own blood._

Her optimism made her heart sink.

A pair of calloused hands held her face. “My lady,” Rhaegar’s soft voice murmured, commanding all of her attention and clouding her head. “I promise you, we will be in Dorne by the quickest route.”

She opened her mouth to say that the length of the journey is not what worried her, but sound escaped her when his lips covered hers. The kiss knocked the hat off her head, and her infuriatingly long hair spilled down her back and over her eyes. The kiss was gentle, sweet, and kind. The kiss was wholly unexpected.

Lyanna’s senses did not return to her until moments after he pulled away. She felt her face grow hot, which surely meant her skin was turning a splotchy red, but Rhaegar did not have a hair out of place. Nor did he look terribly excited; it was as if he had done nothing at all.

“I must go change into something less ostentatious,” Rhaegar remarked casually, as if nothing unusual had just passed between them. “I’ll be a moment, my lady.”

The knights walked out of the room just as Rhaegar moved to walk into it. As Rhaegar had just finished explaining, they had changed out of their pearly scaled armor and wore plain steel armor, gray and unremarkable. It helped to make Lyanna feel less plain beside them, but not by much.

“Your hat, my lady,” Arthur remarked, nodding towards the floor.

Lyanna turned and looked down. “Oh.” She felt herself grow hot again as she picked up the straw hat, only this time out of frustration. “I do hate this thing,” she mumbled to no one in particular. “Would it not be easier for me to cut my hair?”

“His grace said he likes it long,” Arthur returned.

“It’s _my_ hair, and I do not like it long” Lyanna responded hotly. Yet even as she said that, she ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it out and tidying it. Finally, she sighed, and rearranged it all inside the hat once more.

“Will we be staying the night here?” Lyanna asked before tentatively sitting down on a chair. “Our horses need rest.”

“We have fresh horses. We’ll ride out of King’s Landing under the cover of the night, ride for some time, and camp.”

“So, we shall not go to the castle?”

“Of course not,” Ser Oswell piped up with one of his now-familiar mocking smiles. “We don’t need courtiers taking too close a look at our prince’s girlish new squire.”

“I’m not so girlish,” Lyanna returned quickly.

“Of course not, my lady.” The knight returned sardonically.

Lyanna opened her mouth to say something biting back, but Ser Arthur cut in. “It will be some time before night falls. I suggest you save your energy for the road. Sleep, if you can.”

She could only huff and cross her arms in return. It was far too early to sleep.

 

* * *

 

They had passed the time in the city with idle chatter and a belly full of rich food. Rhaegar did not mention the kiss to her in the time that passed, nor did he attempt another one. Lyanna found herself equal parts grateful and disappointed. She thinks she might have _liked_ the kiss. She was not sure if he did.

They rode out of King’s Landing in new clothes and on fresh horses with even a pack horse in tow. Such a horse promised to slow them down, though Rhaegar had confided in her his plans of replacing the horse often along their journey when she had inquired after it.

The blackness of night gave them cover as they left the city with no entourage of smallfolk as before. They looked drastically different from the riders who had entered the city; now they just looked like two plain knights, a squire, and a cloaked rider. Not a group to garner any special attention.

They rode for hours in silence save for the sound of galloping hooves. The roads they took were barren ones, with few travellers and fewer distractions. Lyanna had never been bored of riding before, but she was now. The lack of excitement forced her to focus on how saddlesore she felt, how itchy her hat was, and that thrice damned kiss. He should not have kissed her, she decided. He was married and she was not his mistress, nor did she intend to be. It was wrong of him-- though she forgave him quickly enough.

Just as Lyanna began to feel the first pangs of sleepiness, the group rode into a forest and searched for an appropriate place to rest. They settled on a small clearing that had looked like it had been discovered by travellers before them, and began to settle in, starting with a fire.

“We will need some firewood,” Rhaegar announced.

“I’ll gather it,” Arthur volunteered.

“I’ll help you,” Lyanna said, removing the damnable hat from her head to let her hair free. “We need stones as well.”

Arthur looked to Rhaegar as if he were asking his permission. Rhaegar nodded.

“Be careful,” he warned.

Lyanna did not know whether to feel touched or irritated at this warning, but she decided that she was too tired to care. The sooner they gathered the materials for a fire, the sooner she could lay her head down and sleep.

Ser Arthur’s armor was noisy, though the knight was not. He focused on the task ahead, eyes scanning the ground intently for fallen branches and round stones. Lyanna tried to emulate his focus, but found that she was far too bored and her eyes too heavy-lidded to do the same.

“How long do you suppose the journey to Dorne will last?” Lyanna asked as she bent down to pick up a branch.

“We shall need a month, at the very least,” Ser Arthur responded curtly.

“Does the scenery improve out of the Crownlands?” Lyanna grew tired of endless plains and forest after forest. There was plenty of that in the North as it is.

“By some measure,” Arthur allowed. “The Stormlands are not quite as crowded.”

“So we will pass through the Stormlands?” The Stormlands were Robert’s lands. The thought made her fret.

“Yes. The Boneway begins in the Stormlands, and will lead us to Dorne.”

“Would it be fair to ask a Dornishman if Dorne is beautiful?”

He smiled then, a smile that was rather boyish for a man of his age. “It would not. But still, Dorne is beautiful.”

“And _hot_ , I’m sure. The thought alone makes me sweat.”

Arthur laughed. “ _Very_ hot.”

In good time, Arthur had gathered a bundle of wood under his arm while Lyanna cradled stones in her oversized shirt. As they made their way back to camp, she found her energy was returning to her rather suddenly, and that she was not as tired as before.

“Perhaps I can take the first watch tonight?” Lyanna asked of the knight.

A silence passed as Arthur did not reply.

“Did you hear me, Ser Arthur?”

Still, he did not reply.

Lyanna rolled her eyes. “I’m either boring you or annoying you. Very well, I’ll stop talking.” His hand suddenly wrapped around her arm and drew her back. Lyanna nearly dropped all of the stones she had gathered; she looked up at him in annoyance. “What are you--”

He pressed a finger to his lips. Lyanna blinked away her offense and tried to hear what he heard. For a few moments, she believed Ser Arthur had either gone mad or was simply trying to get her to shut up, but then she heard them: voices.

“Where is she?” A voice rose above the rest-- a voice Lyanna knew.

“I cannot say, my lord.” This was Rhaegar’s voice who replied, calm and sweet.

“I am not here to play games!”

She would recognize that voice even in death. “Brandon,” Lyanna whispered. Her arms and legs suddenly felt weak. _He found us._

“Put your sword down, Lord Brandon” another voice added, an older voice that Lyanna did not recognize.

“Yes, put it down, or I’ll run mine through you,” Oswell’s voice growled.

“He’s lying!” Brandon shouted madly. Lyanna could only imagine the scene too well-- her brother’s rage was not an animal to be trifled with, and it could not be controlled. “My men saw you take her. We saw you leave King’s Landing with her. I do not need your confession-- I know you took her. You will tell me where she is, _prince_ ,” He spat the last word like a curse, and Lyanna involuntarily shivered.

When the silence that followed was too long for Brandon’s liking, he spoke again.

“Tell me, or I will kill you where you stand.”

“Pay no mind to the young lord’s idle threats, your grace. I assure you, we will not kill you.” The older voice from before was speaking. “But you must understand: the girl was not yours to take.”

“Indeed, Lord Brynden, she was not,” Rhaegar replied. “Yet, I cannot speak to her location. She has fled, and Ser Arthur has gone to find her.”

Lyanna’s eyes finally broke away from the line of trees to look up at the knight that accompanied her. He was stiff and silent, one hand gripping Dawn’s hilt on his back, as if he might swoop in and cut them all down.

“Liar!” Brandon returned viciously. There was a sound of a tussle, of swords being unsheathed, and Brandon’s shouts of frustration.

“Perhaps his grace will accompany us to Riverrun?” The voice Rhaegar had identified as Brynden asked. “Answers may come easier to you within the walls of a castle.”

“We can’t!” Brandon shouted. “Lyanna is out there-- we must find her.” There was rage in his voice, but sorrow too. He missed her. He feared for her. The thought puts a lump in Lyanna’s throat.

“I will leave that to you, Brandon. Better to keep you as far away from our prince as possible. Will you come with us, your grace-- willingly?”

“Of course,” Rhaegar returned. “As muddy as this all seems, my lords, I promise you, all is not as it appears. Sheathe your sword, Ser Oswell. These men do not mean us harm.”

“Perhaps not the men, but the wolf needs to be kept in hand, lest I cut him down,” Oswell said pointedly.

There was further noise, and the sound of men and horses moving along. The pair stood rooted in place until the noises were too far away to hear. Then Lyanna’s arms and legs gave way, and she dropped to her knees, stones tumbling down to the ground after her.

“How?” Was all Lyanna could ask. “How did they find us?”

“Rhaegar named Brynden, and since they have come from Riverrun-- he must mean Brynden Tully. The Blackfish.” Arthur grimaced. “We were not careful enough, nor fast enough.” His voice was cold and hard, as were his eyes, when they fixed on her. “If your brother harms a hair on Rhaegar’s head, he will pay the price tenfold.”

Lyanna would have laughed had her shock not been so great. “And you tell me this because I have my brother in hand? Because I could have any sort of control over him?” Lyanna shook her head and scrambled to her feet. “If you believe that, then let us follow them. We can put this all to right, if they knew the truth.”

“What truth?” Arthur returned sharply.

“The only truth! I have come willingly. I chose this path.”

“And that will sate him? Will your brother laugh and bid you on your way, then?”

“Rhaegar has told him I _fled_!”

“Rhaegar has bought us time!” He dropped the wood under his arm and began to march into the clearing. “If it is Dorne you want, you will come with me.”

Lyanna stumbled to her feet, clumsily following after him. “What of Rhaegar?”

“He will meet us there.”

“How?” Another question begged, _why?_

“Unless your brother intends to take Rhaegar as a true hostage, he has no hold on him.”

“And if he does just that?”

Arthur glared at her. “Then he will have the king’s wrath fall on his head. Is your brother so foolish?”

Lyanna opened her mouth to defend her older brother, but she knew it was pointless. Her brother was indeed a fool when it came to his heart, and there was none closer to it than her. No doubt he was imagining only the most horrid and unspeakable things; if he did kill Rhaegar before the day was through, it would be a miracle.

“What if I want to go home?” Lyanna asked, risking another question that might further irritate the already irate Arthur Dayne. This one tumbled from her lips near unbidden.

“Home?” Arthur repeated, as if it were a foreign word. “Is that what you want?”

 _Was it?_ Lyanna could not say. The cost of freedom was becoming one that was not easy to pay, and yet home was the last place she wished to be. At home she would be her father’s daughter, primed and prepped to be Robert Baratheon’s wife. Home would push her out of one cage and right into another, where her life would be ruled by a man, as it had always been ruled by man.

_Would it be so bad? To be Robert’s wife?_

She would only be shamed, and humiliated, and miserable-- was that not the fate of many women who came before her?

She recalled a letter that Rhaegar had sent her when she shared with him a similar concern. In the letter he had been so kind, so understanding, offering more hope than even Ned had given her. _It must be my fate to be unhappy,_ she had written. He had written back:

_Why must you be unhappy, when joy can made?_

She must make her joy now, she decided.

“I don’t want to go home,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “Take me to Dorne.”

Arthur appeared irritated nonetheless. “Then we ride.” He climbed atop his horse.

Lyanna looked back at the remaining two horses: hers, and the packhorse. “Will we take the packhorse with us?” She asked.

“No. It will only slow us down,” Arthur answered as he climbed atop his horse. “Hurry, my lady, we’ve hardly the time.”

“But we cannot simply leave it here; it carries too much to walk to water,” Lyanna added, frowning. “What of your armor?”

“It’s not important. We need to go, my lady.” Arthur’s voice was becoming harsher and more impatient, but it only made her attention on the horse grow greater.

She hurried to the packhorse and, with considerable effort, pulled off it’s heavy saddlebags until they toppled to the ground in a crash loud enough to startle the beast into the thicket of trees around them. She thought she heard Arthur curse at the commotion.

“My lady,” Ser Arthur warned. By the tone of his voice it was clear that his irritation was mounting. Lyanna did not respond to him, choosing to weather his tempestuous glance for a little longer.

At her feet were the upended bags, fit to burst with Kingsguard armor, food, and skins of wine. A pearly white gauntlet had fallen out in the process; it glittered in the moonlight, transfixing her and rooting her to her place.

“My lady!”

Gathering her wits about her, Lyanna bent down to pick up the gauntlet before running to her horse. She jumped atop her mare and flicked the reins before Arthur did, getting a headstart on the knight. When he caught up to her pace, he appeared less annoyed than he did from before. He almost sounded _amused_.

“What do you want with that?” He asked, no doubt speaking of the gauntlet tucked under her arm.

She ignored him, for not even she knew the answer. She merely weaved through the trees, forcing her eyes to stay ahead.

“There will be no rest tonight,” he informed her. “We will ride the whole night through.”

The words alone made her want to yawn but she suppressed the urge in favor of appearing resolute. Rhaegar had bought them time, yet it sat ill with her, to leave him behind. It felt lonely to ride with Ser Arthur when she had ridden with Rhaegar and Ser Oswell as well, when she had ridden with Brandon more times than she could count.

 _Where is my place?_ Lyanna asked herself. _With Rhaegar, or with Brandon?_

She dared to look back, but all she saw were trees.

 _My place is with Robert,_ she reminded herself. _Only I have decided that is not where I want to be._

She flicked her reins again, dug her heels into her horse’s side, and rode off into the night.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna and Arthur make some progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

 

They ride until Lyanna could hardly keep her eyes open. She had been unsteady to the point where Arthur had to help her dismount, his hands firm upon her waist until she righted herself.

Lyanna blinked at their dark surroundings. “We are staying at an inn?” She mumbled. “Is that wise?” The question was purely rhetorical-- she did not really care if it was wise or not. She only wanted to lay her head down.

“I need sleep,” Arthur admitted groggily. In the dark Lyanna could see his eyes watery from fatigue. “As do you. We are better hidden within an inn than on the road-- at least for tonight.”

Lyanna nodded, too tired to debate the matter. She followed him clumsily to the door of the dimly-lit inn until he stopped abruptly.

“Your hat,” he said.

Lyanna touched the top of her head and felt only her hair. “I must have left it behind.” She perked up at this, far too glad over such a simple matter.

“You look like a girl,” Arthur added plainly.

“I hope so,” Lyanna returned, puzzled and slightly offended.

“I mean--” He sounded rather embarrassed. “We are taking rooms at an inn, and you are clearly no squire of mine.”

“Perhaps I’m your wife, then,” Lyanna suggested. “Or your sister?”

Arthur seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding. “My sister, then.” He led them inside, to the sleepy innkeeper sitting at a table in the tavern. There were a few others there too, all passed out and most likely drunk, judging by the number of empty horns scattered on the tables.

“We will take two rooms,” Arthur said.

“Two?” The innkeeper snorted. He was a portly man with greying hair and fat lips, but it was his disdainful tone that Lyanna liked the least. “I’ve one to give you, but not two.”

“We need two,” Arthur insisted again.

“I’ve only one to give you,” the man added gruffly. “There have been a great many men travelling on these roads of late. You two are wed, aren’t you? Why should you need two?”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but Lyanna tugged on his sleeve. “Don’t be silly, husband,” she said sharply. “We’ll take one room.”

Arthur was too alarmed to reply, and the innkeeper did not wait for him to speak. He got up from his chair on unsteady feet and soundlessly made for the stairs.

“We said you’d be my sister,” Arthur hissed under his breath. He appeared truly scandalized, as if the word _husband_ had managed to render his vows broken.

“Now, now, husband, don’t ruin our honeymoon with your poor mood.” It seemed that even while half-asleep Lyanna could manage a jape and a smile-- especially when it made Arthur appear even more mortified. She looped her arm in his and the pair followed the innkeeper up the stairs. “You ought to call me wife, for the sake of this mummer’s show.”

“I will not,” Arthur returned sharply, and yawned immediately afterward.

“I’ll need my payment up front,” the innkeeper demanded when he reached the room. He would not move from the doorway until he had his coin in hand. “There will be breakfast in the morning,” he added before stalking back downstairs.

The room provided was small, containing a single bed enough for two, and a murky basin of water on a rickety table. Lyanna was too tired to complain of their meagre accommodations. She quickly slipped out of her boots and collapsed on the left side of the bed.

Her eyes fluttered open and shut as Arthur removed his plain armor. She remembered the pearly white gauntlet she had placed in her saddlebag-- even now she did not know why she took it. Perhaps it just felt wrong to let such a beautiful piece sit and gather moss in the middle of a forest somewhere.

A few minutes passed in silence. Lyanna had nearly fallen asleep when she noticed that half of the bed was empty. She sat up quickly, and found Arthur Dayne curled on hardwood floor, Dawn at his side.

“Ser Arthur!” She cried, finding the energy to raise her voice. The knight startled awake, hand already at Dawn’s hilt. “What are you doing down there?”

“Sleeping, my lady,” he grumbled, none too pleased to be awake.

“There is room enough on the bed. Share it with me.” Lyanna was small enough not to bother him in the bed, and she was so tired besides that she intended not to move an inch until she woke.

“It’s not proper,” he returned sheepishly. His dark purple eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion, and his dark blonde hair all a mess. He was in no state to argue, yet here he was arguing. It infuriated Lyanna.

“You have been riding for hours,” she said hotly. “Our horses are receiving better rest than you are right now.”

“My lady--”

“If you do not sleep on the bed, I will join you on the floor.” To prove her commitment, Lyanna slid off the bed and laid against the floor beside it.

“My lady, please, take the bed,” Arthur said, getting to his feet now.

“No. I refuse.” Her sleepiness somehow made her more stubborn. “If the floor is good enough for you, it is good enough for me.”

“My lady--”

“I have a name,” Lyanna said, sitting up straight to meet Arthur’s eye. “My name is Lyanna. You will call me by my name.”

“You speak as if I’m at your command. Forgive me if I choose to call you ‘my lady’,” Arthur returned with an edge of annoyance.

“You are not at my command. But you should call me Lyanna,” she added, “and you should take the bed.”

Arthur pulled a look of defeat. He sighed, then bent to pick up Dawn. He walked to the opposite side of the bed and set the greatsword straight down the middle of it. “Come,” he commanded, audibly tired.

Lyanna rose tentatively, eyeing the sheathed greatsword. “To the bed?”

Arthur nodded, and laid down on the bed, to the left of the greatsword.

Lyanna nearly laughed. “I thought that was merely a story,” she said, unable to bite back a smile of amusement.

“A story?”

“That a knight sleeps with a sword between him and the lady in his charge.” Old Nan had told them this once. Lyanna had thought it sweetly romantic at the time; in action, however, it earned a chuckle. “Is this a jape?”

He sighed, growing more exasperated by the second. “It’s no jape, Lady Lyanna. Please come and sleep.”

She opened her mouth to correct him-- _Lyanna, not Lady Lyanna_ \--but stopped herself. She already won a small victory, and a laugh.

She joined him on the bed, to the right of the sword. She curled up with her back to him, and let herself drift off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

By the time she woke, Ser Arthur was still asleep, and Dawn still between them. He slept facing her, mouth slightly open, with one of his hands wrapped around the greatsword’s hilt. The knight must have been more tired than had he let on, and the bed, however hard it was, was a welcome change to the forest floors they had slept on before. Lyanna allowed him his rest. She slipped out of bed and into her boots, combed her long hair quickly with her fingers, and made her way downstairs to break her fast.

Though it had been nearly empty the night before, the inn was bustling now. Men with swords filled every chair, and the serving girls were running around to accommodate them. Lyanna found an empty table in the corner, and waved a serving girl over to ask for food.

She had been contentedly eating her eggs and potatoes when a young man sauntered over to her table. Lyanna looked up at him curiously, trying to swallow her breakfast as quick as she could.

“I was right, then,” the young man said. He had to have been no older than Ned, with sandy blond hair, brown eyes, and crooked teeth.

“Right about what?” She returned suspiciously.

“You’re a girl.”

Lyanna frowned. “Very good observation, ser. Might I be left alone now?”

His smile slipped and he seemed flustered at her tone. “I-- Apologies, I had only meant that you were in boys’ clothing, b-but your hair is rather long, and your face--”

“I’m a girl,” Lyanna returned flatly. It occurred to her that she had had to assert this many times over the past few days.

“I know.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes and returned to her breakfast. The man didn’t move though, choosing instead to shift from foot and to foot, a sword swinging on his hip.

“Where’s a girl like you going by yourself, then?” He finally asked, perhaps after mustering enough courage at a second chance.

“Wherever I desire,” she answered, paying him only a brief second glance. It was then that something else about the boy caught her eye-- a small stag embroidered onto his shirt. She swallowed hard. “Where are _you_ going?”

“Me?” He was glad the attention, and preened at her gaze. “Me and the rest of my men are going to Riverrun, at m’lord’s behest.”

“And who is your lord?”

“Lord Baratheon, o’ course.”

Lyanna’s blood ran cold at the name. “Does he travel with you?”

“He’s in the Vale, but he’s sent word to meet him in Riverrun.”

“I see. Do you know why he’s sent for you?”

“Not a clue. Lordly business, I imagine.” He grinned as if he told a joke, but upon seeing Lyanna’s blank face, cleared his throat. “Beyond me, o’ course. I’m only a sword.”

Lyanna stared in contemplation at her breakfast. _Robert has sent for them. What does this mean?_

While distracted by her thoughts, the young man propped a foot up on the chair beside her and leaned into her, wrapping a lock of her hair around his finger. “Y’know, a girl like you shouldn’t be travelling alone,” he said in a low voice. “Not every man is kind, my lady.”

Lyanna stared at him. “I’m no lady,” she lied quickly.

“You speak like one.”

“I was born in a castle. I learned a lady’s speech.”

“Aye? Which castle?”

All knowledge of castles suddenly escaped her. “I…”

Another presence appeared behind her, one that sent the young man out of her hair and a few steps back.

“Is he bothering you, wife?” Ser Arthur’s voice asked from behind her.

Lyanna blinked and looked up at the awakened knight. His appearance had improved from last night-- his eyes were clear and hair a little wet, but combed. “A little, husband,” she returned effortlessly. She felt Ser Arthur shift closer to her, looming over her and the now wide-eyed young man.

“M-My apologies, m’lady,” the young man added, flustered again. “I’ll just-- I’ll be on my way.”

When he had stumbled out of earshot, Arthur took the chair beside her. “You should not have come down here without me,” he said in a stern voice.

“I was hungry,” she mumbled, not at all appreciative of being scolded. She pushed her unfinished plate toward him. “You can have the rest.”

He begrudgingly took the food from her and ate, forgetting her transgression for the meantime. _First I learned that knights need sleep, and now I know they get hungry too._ She watched him eat for some time, taking note not for the first time how much he looked like a darker Rhaegar. Darker eyes, darker hair, darker skin-- not half as fair as the prince in comparison, but then few men were. His sister was much prettier than him, she recalled. Ashara... her name was Ashara, remembering Ned’s brief fondness for her. A fondness that was never expressed aloud, of course, but Lyanna saw how fiercely he blushed after returning from dancing with her. Brandon had teased him mercilessly about it, but Lyanna had thought it terribly sweet.

Her mind returned to the immediate present. “I see that you took to being my husband quickly enough,” she remarked with faux idleness. “Did you like calling me ‘wife’?”

Arthur choked on his potatoes, coughing until Lyanna poured him a goblet of wine to wash it down. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “It was only to scare him off,” Arthur sputtered. “I did not like the look in his eye.”

“He was a nuisance,” Lyanna agreed, still fighting a chuckle. “But it _was_ fun to watch him run off like a man on fire.” Arthur cut a rather intimidating figure both in and out of armor. He was tall, square-jawed, and well muscled-- enough to frighten anyone, should they catch him in a foul mood. She almost pitied the poor foot soldier that ran from him.

“Who was he, anyways?” Arthur asked around mouthfuls of food.

“He claimed to be one of Robert’s men, along with these other men,” Lyanna informed him in a whisper. The knight’s violet eyes flitted up to meet hers. “He said Robert had bid them to travel to Riverrun.”

Arthur looked around, taking in the sight of the soldiers. “This is not an army,” he noted. “A retinue, perhaps.”

Lyanna’s interest piqued. “For what purpose?”

“The boy did not say?”

“He claims he does not know. He only said they were to meet Robert in Riverrun.”

“There are men here in lord’s clothing,” Arthur said, tilting his head toward one of the few men dressed differently, and in finer garment than the rest. He got to his feet quickly. “We should leave before we’re noticed.”

Lyanna nodded and obeyed, following him out of the inn. She took in their daytime surroundings, noting that this was a small village with few homes. She wondered how far they had ridden last night; it had felt like hours, and their poor horses might not have even recovered. Regardless, they saddle them and sit atop them, easing the beasts into the long ride with a slow gait.

“Riverrun,” Lyanna thought aloud. “That is where Lord Brynden will be taking Rhaegar.”

“A trip that will set the prince weeks back,” Arthur returned bitterly.

“If Robert is headed to Riverrun…” She was too frightened to finish the thought.

“He is your betrothed, and no doubt concerned for your safety.” Arthur did not sound pleased to note this.

“As you are concerned for Rhaegar’s safety.”

Arthur was silent for some time before he spoke again. “I should be with him,” the knight said solemnly. She saw a glimmer of the knight she had seen the night before, standing with one hand on her arm and the other on Dawn’s hilt as voices apprehended his prince yards away. Arthur loved Rhaegar, was loyal to him in a strong, heartfelt sort of way. He had Brandon’s strength, but Ned’s sense of duty. He did not belong at her side.

It was Lyanna’s turn to go silent. “You must think me terribly selfish. Or stupid, perhaps. Or both.” She felt her cheeks color at her own shame, a color that burned deeper as she felt Arthur stare at her.

“My lady--”

“Lyanna,” she corrected weakly.

“Lady Lyanna, his grace had wished to make this trip as much as you.”

“Why?” The question that had niggled at her for weeks tumbled out of her mouth. “Why does he wish to help me?”

“He is… fond of you,” Arthur said, his face stony still, betraying nothing. It was not enough for her-- fondness was so fleeting, so unsure. There was a better reason, even if it was one Lyanna was not prepared to understand. Did Ser Arthur know what Rhaegar wanted in return? Could it truly be nothing?

“But--” Before the word had finished leaving her mouth, Arthur had interrupted sharply.

“We should ride faster, Lady Lyanna,” he said sternly before urging his horse into a gallop. Lyanna had no choice but follow swiftly behind, swallowing her doubts for now.

* * *

 

They camp by a river that Arthur said was called the Wendwater.

“I did not know the Kingswood was so large,” Lyanna admitted, lightly swinging the hares they had caught by the ears as they walked back to their fire. “So we are in the Stormlands now?”

“Yes, and a week’s ride away from Storm’s End,” Arthur said. “Had your betrothed been there, I would have suggested we visit him.”

It took Lyanna a moment to realize this was a jest, as Arthur did not smile. He had been so scarce on jests ever since their journey began.

“That would have been a fine visit,” Lyanna returned the jest. “Me and you, and Robert’s warhammer at your throat.”

“It would be nice change of pace, I think.”

Both their moods had significantly lightened since they absconded from the inn. Perhaps it was fair weather and the brief, yet fruitful, hunt that made it so. Lyanna had little skill at archery, but she was small and fast. She had grabbed the hares, and Arthur broke their necks. She had tried not to wince each time he did; she reminded herself that such a death was quick and clean and painless. More importantly, it would fill their bellies. They sat down around the fire to prepare the hares for cooking. Lyanna reached in her boot for her dagger, and pulled it from its small sheathe.

“Where did you get that?” Arthur asked, faintly alarmed.

“Did you not see it before now?” Lyanna asked. She supposed she hadn’t used it for anything until now, as it never left her boot. “It’s my dagger. I’ve always kept it in my boot.”

“I see that, but where did you get it?”

“My brother Brandon got it for me, on my last nameday,” she said, twirling the dagger proudly. It was made in Winterfell’s smithy, crafted from fine steel with a direwolf traced onto flat of each side. The best part, however, was the hilt. It was made of weirwood, sanded down so smooth the wood appeared to shine. Nothing felt more right in her hand-- it was as if she had been born to carry it. “He said to use it on my betrothed, should he get unruly.” Lyanna had laughed herself to tears when he had said that; the memory warmed her now.

“Your brother gets you strange gifts,” Arthur said. He reached for the dagger at his own hip and made the first cut to skin the hare.

“He gets me what he knows I like. He knows me better than anyone else.” It still ached to think of Brandon, to think of how far she had been from him, and how close just a day ago. Their reunions had always been warm, with hugs and kisses and laughter, but that reunion would have been something sour. Lyanna distracted herself by beginning to skin her own hare.

“You know how to skin an animal as well?” Arthur asked, sounding more and more amused by the second. He brows were quirked upwards as if she were the oddest thing he’d laid eyes on.

Lyanna couldn’t help but bristle. “And why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged. “I had thought that your skill might lie in embroidery.”

“Embroidery?” Lyanna scoffed, straightening. “Not even my father had devised such a horrible punishment for me yet.”

Arthur chuckled. “No? But isn’t that what young ladies do, learn to embroider and mend clothes?”

Lyanna nearly snorted. “What use is embroidery? So I may embroider my husband’s sigil on every pair of smallclothes he owns?” Arthur actually laughed aloud at this, and Lyanna was surprised that he laugh was so warm. “Better yet, I can embroider _my_ house’s sigil on all his smallclothes. To remind him and the woman who undresses him who he belongs to.”

“If you have never picked up a needle in your life, then I doubt you would produce a good enough likeness,” Arthur returned with a ghost of a smile on his lined face. “They might look upon what is meant to be a wolf and take it for a misshapen tree.”

“Well, they could at least deduce who had sewn it, and think of me.”

Arthur chuckled, then returned his attention to the hare. “What a low opinion you have of your betrothed.”

“He is the master of his own reputation. Not even my dear brother could deny as much,” she remarked coldly. Poor Ned. He so wanted this marriage to go through. Nothing would have pleased him more than calling Robert a true brother. _Well, nothing could have pleased me less, dearest Ned._

“Some men will always wander,” Arthur offered as consolation. He sounded almost wistful, almost sad.

“Would that women were afforded the chance to as well,” Lyanna returned somberly as she sliced the belly of the hare, and watched its guts spill out. “And yet, I would not mind the chance to be steadfast. If I could be a knight like you, I would be.”

“Loyal to what cause?”

“A good one. A worthy one.”

“Such causes are very few, I fear.”

“But you have found one, haven’t you?”

Arthur’s silence surprised her.

“What?” She asked. “You’re a Kingsguard knight.”

“Not all kings are worthy,” Arthur returned cryptically.

That much could not be denied. She’d heard the rumors that came out of the capital, heard of the King’s fiery appetites. Never mind that she had her own experience with the Mad King at Harrenhal. Had Rhaegar not turned her loose when he came upon her hiding the Knight of the Laughing Tree’s shield, she would have surely been tried and executed for an imagined treason. “But some princes are,” Lyanna noted fondly, thinking of her savior twice over.

Arthur gave her a weary smile then. “Indeed,” he said in a tone that implied that the conversation should end.

They cleaned the hares and roasted them over the fire on a makeshift spit. After they ate and watered their horses, Arthur offered to take the first watch.

“Which means I will get a watch tonight?” Lyanna asked, excited. When it had been four of them travelling, none of the men had wanted to rouse her awake to watch for part of the night.

“Even a knight must sleep,” Arthur returned, laying Dawn down between them.

“I learned that last night,” Lyanna said with a smile. She was about to lay her head down on the grassy field when Arthur spoke again.

“Take this,” he said. Lyanna turned to watch him unclasp his black cloak from where it laid pooled around his armor on the ground.

“I have a cloak.” She drew her hooded cloak around her tighter. “It will do well enough.”

“Mine will warm you while you sleep.”

Lyanna laughed. “I am warm enough, ser. The grass is my featherbed and the night is my blanket.”

Arthur only shrugged. “As you wish, my lady.”

“ _Lyanna_ ,” she corrected, before curling on the ground to sleep. Despite a belly full of food and a warm fire, sleep did not come easily. She found herself distracted by the loveliness of the stars in the sky. It felt as if she were seeing it for the first time, the vast immenseness of the night, dotted by brightly shining stars. For some reason, it made her sad.

 _Is Rhaegar looking up at the stars and thinking of me?_ She thought to herself, almost sighing at her own girlishness. _Is Brandon?_

Her brother’s smile had always been brighter than any star. She missed him, and he surely missed her.

Yet despite his affection, he had made no effort to save her from her horrid marriage. He had said that she must do her duty, as he was doing his. But being a man married to an agreeable girl was not the same as being a girl married to a disagreeable man. Would she be allowed lovers, as any man would be? Would she be allowed to rule her own body, which belonged to her husband by rights? Would she be allowed to disagree with her husband, or refuse him? Ser Arthur had said it best: some men will always wander. Why should she have to bear it, though?

Brandon did not vouch for her. She had to remember that. She had to love him, but also had to remember that. It was the only thing that kept her from running back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every night when they made camp, Ygritte threw her sleeping skins down beside his own, no matter if he was near the fire or well away from it. Once he woke to find her nestled against him, her arm across his chest. He lay listening to her breathe for a long time, trying to ignore the tension in his groin. Rangers often shared skins for warmth, but warmth was not all Ygritte wanted, he suspected. After that he had taken to using Ghost to keep her away. **Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade between them for honor's sake, but he thought this must be the first time where a direwolf took the place of the sword.** \--Jon II, ASoS


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair travel through the Stormlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

 

The Stormlands, Lyanna learned, were rather stormy.

She had thought that it had been named after the legend of Durran Godsgrief, and not after the weather itself. Yet it seemed that ever since they left the Crownlands, the rain had been relentlessly battering them. On one hand, Lyanna found it rather fascinating-- there was rain in the North, of course, but not like this. The rain here came down hard and fast, the lightning would light up the night sky, and the thunder rattled her ears. The louder ones still made her jump in her saddle, much to Ser Arthur’s amusement.

“It’s only thunder, Lady Lyanna,” he had remarked with a roguish smile the first time.

“I know what it is, Ser Arthur,” she had fired back petulantly. It did not keep Arthur from laughing every time she jumped afterward. 

They had tried to take cover from the rain when they could, as it tired their horses and risked giving them all a chill. This made for slow progress, slower than either of them would have liked. Still, it could not be helped. When the weather had made up its mind on something, it useless to fight it.

It was coming down in sheets when Lyanna and Ser Arthur sought out cover once again. They found it in a stable attached to an inn, where a pair of horses were already tied to their posts. They helped their own horses in, soaking the once dry hay beneath them. Lyanna smoothed out her mare’s wet mane. The poor beast was getting tired, Lyanna could tell. Soon enough they would need fresh horses. Before her thoughts could travel further, her stomach gave a soft rumble. She rummaged through the saddlebags in search of food; she pushed aside Arthur’s white gauntlet as she did, until she found a piece of slightly waterlogged bread.

Ser Arthur had sat down against the wall of the stable. He had removed Dawn from his back, and laid it across his lap. Lyanna joined him on the hay beside him, picking at her soggy bread. It was a little gross, she supposed, but there was no sign of mold. There was no room for being picky. She popped a small piece in her mouth, swallowing it quickly so as to not linger on the too-soft texture of it.

“I could get us some meals,” Arthur offered, motioning with his head to the inn behind them. His hair was dripping wet, turning the normally blonde locks into a darker brown. His clothes were soaked too, like hers were; he had stopped wearing his armor atop his horse, jesting that a rusty knight was not a seemly one.

“It’s fine, truly,” Lyanna lied as she gulped down another wet piece of bread.

“No warm soup then?”

“I…” She tried to resist the thought of a bowl of hot soup pouring down her throat and warming her soaked bones. She must have made quite the wistful face, for Arthur stood up barely concealing a smile.

“I’ll go fetch us some, then,” he said before bowing out into the rain.

Lyanna had no will to resist. She rolled her wet bread toward her mare, wondering if the horse would be willing to eat it. She was; she bowed her head and took a small bite.

Lyanna untied her cloak from around her, laying the wet cloth flat on the hay, hoping it would dry some before the rain went away. It was not a fun feeling constantly waterlogged and heavy. She supposed she ought to savor it while she could-- in some parts of Dorne, no rain ever came, leaving behind sandy deserts. Lyanna could scarcely imagine the sight. Even the North with all its snows always had grass and green. 

As she tried to warm herself up, she noticed that Dawn had been left on the ground beside her. She had caught sight of the greatsword many times throughout their trip. Nightly, at least, as Arthur polished it at their camp every night. The sight of the pale blade glittering by the firelight never failed to amaze her. Lyanna glanced up, looking to see if Ser Arthur was returning. Then she took hold of the blade, pulling it out of its sheathe with both hands.

It was heavy, but not as heavy as she had expected. Its weight reminded her of Ice, her family’s Valyrian steel greatsword. There was a certain lightness to Valyrian steel, as her father once explained, that made it easier to wield. Dawn was nearly the same, though perhaps a little bit heavier. Regardless, it took both her hands to shakily hold it up.

Even though clouds blocked the sunlight, the blade still shone, as if it had a light coming from within it. She had never seen a blade so pale so before, and she supposed she never would. It looked iridescent, nearly translucent, which made it look as fragile as glass, yet she knew it could withstand any blow.

“Beautiful,” she could not help but whisper aloud as she carefully laid it across her lap, the way she’d seen Ser Arthur do it a dozen times. It glittered even as it laid still. She took a finger and traced the pattern of shooting stars at the hilt, a hilt that looked as if it were made of some sort of pale stone. She moved her finger halfway down the length of the blade, before stopping it at its edge. She drew back quickly, surprising to see blood squeezing its way out of a cut. “It’s so sharp,” she murmured aloud, hypnotized by the sight.

“Exactly as it should be,” a voice said from above her. Lyanna nearly jumped at Ser Arthur’s sudden presence. He held two bowls of soup, one in each hand, and appeared to be caught between amusement and disappointment.

“Oh, I’m-- I’m sorry,” Lyanna apologized clumsily, forgetting her cut finger as she moved for the sheath. “I only wanted to look at it.”

Arthur kneeled before her, carefully setting down the bowls before he took hold of her wrist. “Look, you’ve cut yourself,” he stated plainly.

“I said I’m sorry,” Lyanna repeated, frowning deeper.

“I’m not cross,” Arthur said, shaking his head. He released her wrist and pointed toward her drying cloak. “May I?”

Lyanna nodded, unsure to what she was agreeing to. In a quick motion that accompanied a ripping sound, Arthur tore a small, narrow strip of cloth from her cloak. He held out his hand to ask for hers; she gave it to him, setting his wrist in his palm. He gently wrapped the cloth about her finger twice, then used the loose ends to tie a rough knot.

“Thank you,” Lyanna mumbled, feeling more and more foolish. Dawn still laid across her lap, brazenly betraying her.

“You could have just asked to see it,” Arthur added gently, moving to sit beside her.

“I suppose I’ve a habit of hiding such things,” Lyanna returned with a shrug. “My father would have sooner died than let me carry a sword.” Dawn was a far way away from sticks and tourney swords, and her anxiety at being caught with such things had yet to leave her. Her father was nowhere around, of course, and yet even now she defied him, and feared him.

“What do you think of it, then?” He nodded towards Dawn.

“I think…” Lyanna paused, considering her words. Were there even proper words to describe the sword that rested in her lap? It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. If Benjen were here, he’d be bursting with exclamations. Lyanna simply felt speechless. “Well, I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think I ever will.”

Arthur smiled shyly as if she were complimenting him and not his sword. A look in his eye begged her to continue.

“Is the legend true? Was it forged from the heart of a fallen star?”

“All legends are true, if you believe in them,” Arthur replied. “Yet, it’s as you said. For thousands of years, there has been nothing like it.”

“It is not Valyrian steel,” she pointed out.

“No, it’s not. It’s not any type of steel or metal that we know. It never loses its edge, is never brittle, and never needs reforging.”

“How did you earn it?” She knew that only the Sword of the Morning may carry the blade; what that really entailed, she had no clue, but the knight was her captive teacher, and thus she had a chance to learn.

“I was worthy of it,” Arthur answered simply.

“Yes, but what does that  _ mean _ ? What did you do?”

“I was unmatched on any field,” Arthur said, the boast sounding humble coming from his lips. “No knight in Dorne could strike me down or best me. I was squired under Ser Lewyn, and survived the task.”

“What do you mean ‘survived’?”

“Well, he is not an easy knight to squire. Greatness requires diligence; he expected much from me, and I did not fail him.”

“How old were you then, when you received it?”

“Eight-and-ten. I was made a knight of the Kingsguard shortly after.”

Lyanna spent some time silent as she mulled it over, her eyes fixed on the blade in her lap. She was five-and-ten, only three years younger than Arthur when he became Sword of the Morning. There was time yet for greatness, then, greatness she would never know had she resigned herself to being Robert’s wife. The thought made her even gladder for choosing this path, no matter how cold and wet it was so far.

Lyanna carefully picked the sword up from the middle, handing it to the knight. He took in one hand with little effort, and sheathed it quickly.

“Thank you,” Lyanna said. “For that, and for the soup.”

“The soup was the greater gift, I think. Come, eat it quickly before it goes cold.”

She took the knight’s advice and set the warm bowl to her lips.

 

* * *

 

“We are in the shadow of Storm’s End, my lady,” Arthur commented, nodding towards the castle in the distance to the east. It sat perched upon a massive cliff overlooking the sea.

“Not quite the shadow, I hope,” Lyanna returned, hoping that her anxiety was well hidden. Robert may not be there, but she preferred not to linger. Had things gone according to her father’s plan, she would have lived in that castle within the year. The thought made her shiver.

“Fear not, even if Robert had been in the castle, he could not see you from his window,” Arthur said unhelpfully. Lyanna pinned him with what she hoped was a withering glare. Over a week of travelling alone with the knight had managed to lessen formality between the too, but sometimes Lyanna found herself liking it better when he was stone-faced and serious.

“A fine jape from a knight who never has to fear being betrothed to someone dishonorable,” Lyanna quipped in return, cracking her horse’s reins. The mare lurched forward, but her pace did not quicken by much. 

“Surely he is not as bad as you make him sound,” Arthur said.

“I’m sure his lovers would agree with you,” she said coldly. It was intolerable, how often she had heard those words or something similar. Ned had insisted Robert was a good man, Benjen said he wasn’t too awful, father obviously approved of his title and holdings, and even Brandon had done little to keep her from being bound to him. All around her people insisted on what was good about him as a man, yet forgot that Lyanna would be taking him as a  _ husband _ and not just as a friend. She had no intention of sharing her husband with someone else, just as she was unwilling to bear the shame of it. Bastards and affairs had no place in any marriage of hers; she would accept full dignity, and nothing less.

“You’re certain this path is better, then?” Arthur asked, looking and sounding detached. 

“Of course it is,” Lyanna answered, a little baffled by his sudden change in tone. “At least this way I have a choice.” Her mare lurched forward again and huffed. Lyanna drew back on the reins to bring the panting beast to a halt. “My horse was not made for a journey this long,” Lyanna said. She slid off her saddle and moved to the front of her horse, stroking her mane. “I need another soon, or this one will die under me.” This thought upset her more than her prior conversation. The poor beast was huffing and puffing and looked entirely worn out.

“We’ll take her into town, see what we can get for her, and purchase a new one, then,” Arthur decided.

“Have you the coin for a new horse?”

“I have enough for another like her. We only need a horse to endure another couple of weeks, not a sand steed.”

Lyanna nodded in reluctant agreement.

“Come. We’ll surely find one in the city,” Arthur said, nodding towards Storm’s End.

Lyanna looked out to the castle and it’s surrounding city, still uneasy. “Are you certain?”

“Certain we will find a horse there, yes. There will not be a town as large as this for some time.”

She trusted in his confidence and followed him into the city, riding her horse at a slow gait.  _ Poor thing _ , she thought, pitying the panting horse again.  _ Who will buy you but for horseflesh?  _ She should have expected as much out of the mare when she first laid eyes upon her. Perhaps a small part of her did, and that was why she did not name the beast. It would do her no good to become attached.

The city was busy enough that they travelled through its streets largely unnoticed. The houses and shops were in the shadow of the castle and its cliff, much like King’s Landing had been in the shadow of the Red Keep. It was not nearly as crowded as the capital had been, however.

Lyanna let Arthur lead the way, trusting in his judgement. He had surely been to the city before, and perhaps even its castle. She hoped that did not mean his face would be recognized, though she wondered if she should fear the same for her own face. Did she look like a highborn lady, even in her common clothing? Did she look out of place? Did she look like a Stark? While she had never stepped foot in Storm’s End, her paranoia gnawed at her.

Arthur found a stable, manned by a pair of men. Lyanna let him negotiate as she removed the saddle and saddlebags from the horse. She stroked the exhausted beast along its back. “I’m sorry, dear friend,” she murmured to the mare. The horse’s black eyes seemed to look at her sidelong. “I should not have picked you.” She hoped the horse would forgive her.

Lyanna looked back up at Storm’s End upon its massive cliff and shivered involuntarily. It was not as big as Winterfell, though its curtain wall was a sight to behold. She could see the tumultuous waves of the sea batter the rock it sat upon, crashing against it over and over. Lyanna had seen the sea before, even enjoyed watching it, but she could not see herself growing used to that sound. Would she have heard it from her marriage bed? She wondered unbidden. Would any window be thick enough to shut the noise out?

_ There is no need to worry about that now, _ Lyanna told herself.  _ Your marriage bed will not be here, not any longer. _

When she finally pulled her gaze away from the castle, she spotted a regiment of castle guards walking down the street. She knew them by their dress, as they wore the same clothes the men at the inn had worn a week past. A little stag, embroidered in the corner. Lyanna averted her eyes and moved closer to Arthur as they walked past.

“...many men travelling, buying many horses,” Lyanna heard one of the men Arthur was bargaining with say. 

“They travel from Storm’s End?” Arthur asked of them.

“Aye. Haven’t you heard?” 

“Heard what?”

“Lord Baratheon’s betrothed, the Stark girl, has up and disappeared.”

Lyanna’s blood ran cold. Had the news travelled already? If they knew,  _ smallfolk _ knew, then there was not a soul in Westeros that did not know. Were they looking for her?

“Is that right?” Arthur asked coolly, as if he had been sharing an idle comment about the weather. “We’ve been on the road for some time. We have not heard such news.”

“Aye, they said Prince Rhaegar took her, and now they say she’s alone. Who knows what’s true?”

“When did you hear that?”

“Just this morning. The crier came down from the castle to tell us all ‘bout it. Says to look out for her.” The man shrugged. “Makes no difference to me, so long as I keep selling horses.”

Arthur shot her a sidelong glance, one that looked as if it were meant to reassure her. “Well, then, what will we get for the mare?” He asked nonchalantly.

They carried out the rest of the transaction with no mention of her again. Lyanna tried her best to appear as small and inconspicuous as possible, though all it made her feel like was as if there was a sign around her neck with her name on it. She even twisted her long hair to the side and kept her eyes cast downward. No doubt she had been described by that blasted crier already: a maid of five-and-ten, with dark hair and grey eyes. 

They make their way out of the city with a fresh horse, another mare, only this one was a cinnamon color, and they stocked up on some more provisions. They do not speak of the news they heard until they were out of the city.

“The world knows, then,” Lyanna said as soon as she could hear herself speak.

“It was bound to happen,” Arthur returned, still appearing infuriatingly calm. “We will be fine, as long as we’re careful.”

“And what if we’re not?” Lyanna asked. Her temper was flaring and she was not sure why. She only knew she was frustrated enough to be angry. “What then? I will be hauled back to my family, and you-- and you-- well, you’d be a kidnapper just as much as Rhaegar!”

“Let me worry about that,” Arthur said coolly, not even paying her a glance.

Lyanna pulled back on the reins, bringing her horse to a halt. “No! Do not treat me like a child. My future is at stake, just as yours is.” She gripped the leather reins until they hurt her hands. “I cannot have this all be for nothing. I cannot let you or Rhaegar be accused of crimes neither of you committed. We  _ must _ succeed, Ser Arthur. We must not be caught.”

Arthur had halted his horse too, and rode it back around so that he was facing her. “We are already accused, my lady. Now it is only a matter of arriving in Dorne in one piece-- which is the errand the prince has tasked me with.”

“This is not an  _ errand _ !” Lyanna shouted, her irritation spilling over. “This is my life! Even if your name is cleared, and Rhaegar’s as well,  _ I _ will be the one to suffer. I will be slandered, and shut in, and married off as soon as Robert would have me, which would be this very day if my father pressed the matter.” She trembled as she spoke, and almost cursed her rage and fear. She should be braver than this. 

“I should remind you that you chose this path,” Arthur continued coldly. “Every choice has a consequence.”

Lyanna could not help but scoff. “Why thank you, Ser Arthur. Thank you  _ so _ much for the consolation,” she returned sharply.

“Is this what you want, then? Do you want whatever it is that Rhaegar had offered you?” His voice picked up, moving from cold to hot.

“What do you mean, whatever? Rhaegar had offered me an escape.”

“Are you certain?”

Lyanna furrowed her brows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you miss home? Don’t you miss your brothers?”

She did, a little, though she would not admit it to the knight. She told herself this homesickness would go away in time. “If I go home, then I must marry Robert. Then who knows when I’ll see home again after that?”

“You saw Storm’s End. A fine castle, with a view so beautiful, overlooking the sea. You will want for nothing.” Why was he telling her this? Why was he trying to dissuade her? He looked just as upset as her, for some reason, with a fire burning in his eyes. Why?

“Nothing but dignity and love,” Lyanna said, an image of Rhaegar flashing into her mind at the word  _ love _ . “Things that cannot be bought. Things that I cannot barter for in a marriage bed.” If she could trade her maidenhead for Robert’s everlasting loyalty, she would. Yet she knew that was not enough, and there were plenty of other maids who could offer him the same.

“I am only asking you to think, Lady Lyanna. Ask yourself if what awaits you in Dorne will be better than what awaits you at home.”

Lyanna gave herself a moment to allow her temper to cool. What awaited her in Dorne? She didn’t know-- and that was the thrill of it. “Choice awaits me,” Lyanna finally said. “And consequences too, I’m sure. But at least I will have a choice.”

“Then you are certain you do not want to go home? If we make for Riverrun now, you, the prince and I may all emerge unscathed.” Arthur’s eyes were fixed on her, looking almost hopeful. “That is a choice, and I offer it to you.”

“I  _ am _ certain. This is what I want.”

It was strange to see, but Ser Arthur appeared disappointed. His frown turned pitying, and the fire that was in his eyes extinguished. “Very well, then. We ride, and keep our heads down.” He flicked his reins and maneuvered his horse back onto their path.

“Ser Arthur, isn’t…” She flicked her reins as well and caught up with him. “Isn’t this what Rhaegar wants as well?” The prince had said it and Ser Arthur had said it, that Rhaegar had wanted to make this trip and assist her in Dorne. Without his help and his encouragement, Lyanna could have never made such a trip. He had been so eager when he spoke of that tower in Dorne, of the Red Mountains that surrounded it, and how they would be hidden away, where no one could find her-- just as she wanted, and just as Rhaegar wanted for her.

“Yes, my lady,” Arthur answered flatly. “The prince wants it as well.”

“And we will still see him in Dorne?”

“Without a doubt. I swore a vow.”

The knight still sounded cold as he spoke. He did not approve-- why not, she did not know. Had she not made it abundantly clear that this was what she wanted? That it was what Rhaegar wanted too? Rhaegar, who had read her letters, heard her grievances, and kissed her so sweetly? Rhaegar, who asked her to come away with him, to a place where she could be free? Without Rhaegar, this path would have never been opened to her. She owed him her steadfastness in sticking to it.

Lyanna shook off thoughts of the knight’s demeanor. It would do no good to fret. The journey ahead was still long, and now it was made more difficult. She would be brave and true, ride the whole way to Dorne without complaint, and receive the freedom she had always wanted. Most importantly, she would find a way to pay back the prince. She owed him a hundred times over for the trouble she had put him through.

_ I must put my trust in Ser Arthur, and in Rhaegar’s plan,  _ she told herself.  _ They will not lead me astray. _

They were doing for her what her own family could not-- and who said that she would never see home again? Winterfell was with her wherever she went. Her brothers, too; bold Brandon, sweet Ned, and darling Benjen, who had been her accomplice in everything, even in this. His eyes had grown wide when she told him of her plans to run away with the prince, but she made him promise to keep it a secret. She had trusted him to keep it; Benjen never broke a promise.

_ I will see him again, _ she told herself.  _ I will see them all again, on my own terms, as my own woman. It is far too soon to miss them.  _

Perhaps if she kept telling herself that, the ache in her heart would soon go away.


	6. Chapter 5 - Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickard Stark receives the wrong two people at Riverrun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one pretty fast huh? Well, here's your intermission! I've also figured out how many chapters there will be in total. Things are going to be a little different for the second half. Enjoy and thank you for your comments!

 

Rickard Stark’s children had once again put him into a difficult position. Two particular children, the two who always made trouble for him and embarrassed him. Brandon and Lyanna, afflicted by the wolf’s blood, had once again managed to do both.

For the past two weeks, Lord Hoster had been in his ear about this whole mess. “You shouldn’t have sent your son,” he kept telling him. “What will you do if your daughter is ruined?” was another thing he told him. Then there was the grumbling about the wedding, how his daughter had been more than upset about this whole series of events, as if Rickard had any hand in the matter. Despite all of this madness, Rickard told himself to endure. If he stayed calm, if things went accordingly, then their plans would not be completely ruined.

When Brynden Tully returned, Rickard had hoped to see his son and daughter on the threshold. Instead, he saw Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Oswell Whent. It was beyond even Rickard’s knowledge whether or not one should bow to the man who allegedly kidnapped his daughter. He had elected to simply stand straight at the time; the prince did not seem offended.

In a strange sort of proceeding, the prince had been given his own chambers and a chance to bathe before he spoke to them. The prince had not asked for such accommodations, but Hoster had insisted. Rickard soon discovered this was not out of courtesy, but out of a desire to quarrel with his brother.

“You brought the crown prince here?” Hoster had boomed in his solar, his face turning an angry crimson. “Is he your hostage? Have you doomed us all?”

“He is no hostage of mine. He came willingly,” Brynden returned sharply. “He has answers, no doubt, as to where the girl had been taken away.”

“ _ He _ took her away! We have witnesses to attest to that!” Hoster shouted. “Where is the girl? Where is Lord Brandon?”

“The prince said she had fled, and Ser Arthur Dayne had been sent after her. I imagined you had questions for him, thus I brought him here as our guest. As for Brandon, he insisted that he continue searching. If the girl had meant to flee to safety, then she makes either for Riverrun, or for Storm’s End. We have our own men to search the Riverlands; Brandon continued the search south.”

_ You blustering fool,  _ Rickard cursed his son.  _ The last thing I need is you roaming the south like a hungry wolf. _

“And you did not think to stop him?” Hoster asked, purpling now. “The other men could have continued the search. This wedding has been delayed long enough!”

“Have a heart, brother. Imagine it was your Cat stolen away and lost. Would you rest before you saw her home again?”

Hoster sputtered for a little while before continuing the quarrel. “My Cat would have never allowed herself in such a situation to begin with.”

That much was true. Lyanna had been forceful when it came to visiting the Isle of Faces. She had insisted on the pilgrimage, as if she had never seen a weirwood tree before. Rickard had seen no harm in it at the time; she was well-guarded, after all. Yet even that was not enough. His willful daughter somehow ended up in Rhaegar’s clutches. And how not? Rickard may not have been at Tourney of Harrenhal, but he had heard all of the sordid details. The prince had had his eye on his daughter. It seemed that he had wanted her ever since then.

“It does not matter now, does it? I could not convince Brandon to come with us, but the prince was happy to oblige.” Brynden’s voice was rising to meet Hoster’s shouts.

“Oblige on what terms? At swordpoint?” Hoster asked, lowering his voice in turn. “We cannot have the king interfere on his behalf. It is too soon for war. You know that.”

“Which is why I asked for his consent in accompanying us, brother. You’ve heard the same rumors I have; he is not likely to go running to his father with a complaint.”

Gods help them if Aerys became involved. Nothing was how it should be yet-- Brandon had not yet married Catelyn Tully, and Lyanna had not yet married Robert Baratheon. The alliances had only been established through word, and not action. Then there was the matter of heirs, of course. Rickard would not dream of calling his banners without a trueborn son of Brandon’s to succeed him. Lyanna too would need to give her husband an heir, or else she would relinquish her place as Lady of Storm’s End. Rickard had faith that both marriages would be fruitful, and promptly so. He was not deaf to rumor; he had heard much of both his son’s and Robert Baratheon’s virility. Rickard was certain he would have grandsons in very little time. 

“This search was ill-advised from the start,” Hoster continued, still fuming. “We should have gone straight to King’s Landing with the accusation.”

“And run straight into the dragon’s maw? A terrible plan,” Brynden laughed bitterly. “If we find the girl ourselves, then we won’t have to treat with the Mad King at all. We may laugh it all off and brush it under the rug. A late wedding is better than none at all.”

It was then that Rickard finally decided to speak. “A late wedding for my son, yes. But what of my daughter? Robert rides for Riverrun as we speak. If my daughter has been defiled, would he want her still?”

“There is no need to be bleak, my lord. Your daughter may yet be a maid,” Hoster offered, despite his previous implications that Lyanna’s maidenhead was a lost cause. 

“I suppose we shall learn the truth soon enough,” Rickard said in response. He had to admit that he had difficulty imagining the sad-eyed prince being his daughter’s raper. Brandon had a wilder imagination than he, but then that did not come as a surprise.  _ Lyanna’s fine, _ he told himself.  _ Nothing’s happened to her. _

Rickard Stark would not entertain the idea that something did happen to her. It would be disappointing, to say the least, but on a larger scale, it would be a heartache. Rickard had tried to reel in his emotions when it came to his only daughter; she had done well to pull at his heartstrings when she was a child, and thus he had spoiled her. She was not that child anymore, but half a woman, and it was an inevitability that she would leave him someday. Between that thought, and Lyanna’s constant protests against her betrothal that Rickard had been determined to harden his heart against the girl. No swords, no boyish outfits and haircuts, no misbehavior. He had to prepare a lady for Lord Baratheon, not girl that was half a boy.

A knock came at the door, which was promptly opened by Hoster’s page. “Prince Rhaegar Targaryen to see you, my lord,” the young man announced.

“Of course, bring him in,” Hoster answered, the livid color in his face quickly draining to neutral. The three of them stood when the silver-haired prince entered, followed by Ser Oswell Whent missing his white armor. He wore plain steel, making him look more like a freerider than a Kingsguard.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Tully,” Prince Rhaegar said, sounding ever the courteous royal. “I must inform you that Lord Brynden and your men had treated me courteously through all of this.”

“Of course, your grace. We hope you will remember that in the time to come,” Hoster returned grimly. 

“I would not dare forget.” The prince swept across the room to engage closer with the lords. Ser Oswell followed on his heels, his hand perched upon his sword. “I understand there has been a bit of miscommunication between us all.”

“My men were injured by yours,” Rickard coldly cut in. He had no time for courtesy; Ser Alyn and many others were still tending to their wounds, and it would not do to not seek justice on their behalfs. “My daughter, stolen.”

The prince looked to him with a melancholy expression, but did not falter. “My apologies, my lord. I did not ask them to produce grievous harm. They were meant only to serve as a distraction.”

“A distraction as you stole my daughter away?”

“Well yes, and no,” the prince said. “It was not a kidnapping. I had your daughter’s consent.”

Rickard’s eyes narrowed, yet he did not attempt to deny his words. “Explain that, your grace.”

“Your daughter had expressed to me a desire to escape her betrothal. I attempted to oblige her, you see, though clearly I had only partly succeeded.”

Rickard could only simmer at the words. It sounded precisely like something his daughter would organize, and yet, some things did not make sense. “How did you learn of her desire to escape?”

“Through letters, my lord. We had exchanged quite a few.”

“I was not aware our rookery had received letters from King’s Landing.” He would have to speak to Maester Walys later, clearly.

“They did not have my seal on them. Once the Lady Lyanna is returned to you, I’m certain she will confirm my words. You must understand-- there is no simple way to take a lord’s daughter and leave. It will always appear as something more sinister.”

“Why should I believe this?” It  _ was _ believable, he had to admit, but Rickard’s mind had to entertain the idea that the prince might be lying.

The prince’s somber purple eyes appeared even more so. “The matter of belief is in your hands, I’m afraid, though once the Lady Lyanna has been returned to you, I am certain she will confirm my words.”

“And why should you choose to risk so much over a young girl’s whims?”

“I fear my answer will hardly be to your liking, my lord.”

Rickard set his jaw in preparation. “I would hear it anyways, your grace.”

“I am rather fond of your daughter, truth be told. I suppose I demonstrated as much at Harrenhal, however much a scandal that turned out to be.”

You hop from one scandal after another, your grace. I did not expect that from you. “What were your intentions with her?”

“Intentions?” Rhaegar mulled over the word for a minute, the word itself sounding musical on his tongue. “I did not intend to be anything less than chivalrous to her. I am wed after all, with two young children. I had merely hoped to spend time with her, as her friend. A selfish desire.”

“Is she still a maid?”

Rhaegar quirked a pale brow upwards. “I made no such inquires.”

Good. One less thing to worry about. “Where is she now, then?”

Rhaegar opened his palms in a gesture of innocence. “I cannot say. She left rather suddenly. I had assumed homesickness had caught up to her, and that she had found her way here. I assume she still gone?”

Rickard nodded grimly.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Rhaegar said, sounding sincere. “I had sent Ser Arthur Dayne to find her-- it may very well be that he has done just that.”

“We’ve received no word. Where can they be?”

“I cannot say. Lord Brandon and Lord Brynden came upon us soon after. But if she is in Ser Arthur’s care, then I have no doubt she is safe.”

“But we do not know if she is in Ser Arthur’s care, or anyone’s care at all,” Rickard returned coolly. “She is a fair maid of five-and-ten. She is childish and knows nothing of the world.”

“Have faith, Lord Stark.” The words nearly made Rickard scoff. He did not need this prince to tell him to have faith when there was so little to be found. “She needs only to utter her name to be offered the greatest comfort and hospitality in any home-- and she is wise beyond her years.”

Rickard did not respond to the prince. They had already sent missives to every castle but the Red Keep, demanding that they send their criers into their towns and spread the word that a maid of five-and-ten with dark hair and grey hair was travelling, either alone or with a silver-haired man and two knights. A great reward was offered to whoever would see her returned to a friendly keep. He only hoped that good news would come soon.

“Lord Robert Baratheon travels from the Vale to meet us here,” Hoster spoke up, addressing the prince. “Can we expect you to stay and receive him?”

“I would rather not, my lord,” Rhaegar returned with a soft smile, perhaps knowing full well that there was little that could be done with such a response. “If my answers have been satisfactory to you all, then I would much prefer to be on my way. I will trust you all to relay my words to him.”

“And where shall you go, your grace?” Brynden asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he spoke for the first time since the prince entered the room.

“King’s Landing. His grace might have heard of this blunder; I would like to ease his mind on your behalf.”

No one could argue against this action; it would be far better for Rhaegar to address the king than for any of them to attempt the same.

“If my daughter is not returned to me, then who shall I sue for justice?” Rickard asked Rhaegar, pinning the calm prince with a cold stare. “You, for theft? You have stolen something that belonged to me, and lost it too.”

“Your daughter, my lord?”

“Yes,  _ mine _ . She belongs to me. You had no right to take her.”

The prince faltered. “I had her consent,” he said softly.

“But not mine. Nor that of her betrothed’s, though his consent counts for less than mine so long as Lyanna’s unwed.”

The prince had the decency to appear concerned. “Despite what has played out, Lord Stark, I would much prefer to be your ally than your adversary. Harrenhal was meant to be more than a display of impulse. I had hoped to make allies of you all, and many more.”

Rickard had little patience for talk of the past. “Who shall I sue for justice, your grace?” He asked again.

The prince pressed his lips together, the friendly demeanor from before leaving him. “Me, my lord.”

Rickard nodded. “Thank you, your grace.” He moved past him and Ser Oswell, who had stuck him with a glare as he exited. He continued the trek back to his rooms, offering no responses to the northmen who had tried to get his attention.

“Where is she, my lord?”

“Why hasn’t Lord Brandon returned?”

“Why is the prince here?”

Rickard had no time for answering questions when he himself had so many. So many questions, yet no one to answer them. The prince’s answers had not been enough; Rhaegar Targaryen could just as easily be a liar, one with enough power to know he could not be challenged as such. Once, in a prior time, Rickard had considered making an alliance with the prince. He had the potential that his father didn’t; now, Rickard was sure they could never be on the same side. In the privacy of his chambers, he lowered himself into an overstuffed armchair and sighed. He rubbed his forehead as if trying to force the unpleasant thoughts out.

She might still be a maid then, if Rhaegar had been honest on that front at least, and a footpad had not come upon her after Lyanna fled from him. All of Brandon’s talk of rape and unpleasantry might be another invention of his hot head.  _ Gods, let that be so _ , Rickard thought. He would never forgive himself if he had been unable to protect his only daughter from such an assault.  _ Lyarra _ would have never forgiven him. He knew that Lyarra’s feelings were a silly thing to even consider-- it was good that she was long dead, for she had spurned him ages ago over matters much smaller. Had she been alive for the matter of Lyanna’s betrothal…

Lyarra would have been enraged to learn that he had plotted to wed their girl to a man such as Robert Baratheon. He would have understood her rage; despite the little joy in their marriage, Rickard had been honorable enough not to seek out another woman’s bed. That was all matters of the heart, however, and not of the mind. It was wise to betroth Lyanna to the Lord of Storm’s End. He had come into his kingdom and his wealth, he had the armies of the Stormlands at his disposal, he was strong and able and loved among men. Lyarra would not have seen that. She would have seen her daughter forced into the bed of a man who would not be true to her. She would have fought him at every turn and hated him for it-- just as Lyanna did now.

_ The wolf blood, _ Rickard cursed.  _ Of all the things to pass onto your children, why that, Lyarra? _

Would that Eddard had been born a girl instead. He possessed none of the wildness that his mother had possessed, that Lyanna and Brandon had inherited. That was not in the gods’ plans, however. The gods had elected to make things all the more difficult for him.

There was Brandon to consider now too, who searched for his sister as Rickard sat here in his comfortable chambers. He would be relentless, no doubt, and drive both his horses and his men to exhaustion. He should not have made the decision without consulting him first, but perhaps good may come of it. Perhaps he’ll find Lyanna, and bring her back to him. He hoped he would. Once his daughter was returned to Riverrun, Brandon would be wedded immediately-- and so would Lyanna, Rickard decided. It was previously agreed upon between him and Robert that they would wait until her sixteenth nameday, but it was clear to him now that it was too long a wait. Once she was wed, her blood would settle. She would learn to be an obedient wife to her husband, she would give him a son as soon as she was able, and she would cast aside all childish thoughts of escape.

He could ask for Robert to delay consummation until her sixteenth nameday. He wondered if such a man could resist the temptation; it would only be for another six moons’ turns. If he could not, well, at least Rickard could say he tried. It was a small matter in the long run.

He sighed again, tired of thinking. That was his task, however: to think, always, especially when his children would not. He did love them, despite the trouble they gave him. That could never be called into question. He loved them, but he did not make them happy. He was not like Lyarra, who had let her heart guide her. For her, their children’s happiness had come first. He remembered how she raged when they sent Brandon to be fostered at Barrowtown, and Ned to the Vale. Both times she had fought against the arrangement, cursing him and nearly in tears. She could not see the significance of his actions. She did not understand the politics, or the need for allies, even foreign ones.  _ “Our boys need us,” _ she had fumed.  _ “They need our affection. They need our guidance. We can teach them right from wrong better than a stranger.” _ Rickard had disagreed with the sentiment, of course. The North needed allies more than it needed the happiness of two young boys.

Lyarra didn’t understand then, and she never did. He had explained it to her, once. He explained the need for southron alliances, the need to overthrow a king that grew madder and madder. It had seemed almost weekly after the Defiance of Duskendale that maester Walys had come to him with reports of the king’s erratic behavior. He had shared these reports with Lyarra, explained his plans to place the kingdom in more capable hands. Lyarra didn’t care for such plans. She was a mother with a woman’s soft heart. She could not be faulted for her natural weakness, thus he had made up for it tenfold.

_ Soon, _ he told himself.  _ Soon, everything shall be the way I had intended it to be. _

It was frustrating, however, not to have everything under his control. He had no choice to but to have faith in Brandon’s tireless fury. He had to hope that the missives he had sent would inspire a fruitful search. He had to believe that Robert Baratheon would honor the betrothal, no matter what state Lyanna was returned in. These were too many unknowns, and required more faith from him than he had.

At least Eddard would be coming down from the Vale. His second son had always obliged him in everything, and never gave him any trouble. Then there was the matter of writing to Benjen as well, the Stark in Winterfell, who had begged him to write with updates in his last letter. Those were things to look forward to.

Rickard straightened in his chair. He drew a fresh sheath of paper from the pile on his desk, and dipped a quill into the ink well.  _ Benjen, _ he began,  _ It is only a matter of time before matters are set to rights... _


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Dayne swore a vow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit shorter of a chapter, not too much action, but it's part of the home stretch! Thank you all for reading!

Not for the first time since he’d begun this journey, Arthur Dayne thought of his sister.

Ashara, who sat at home in Starfall, her belly swollen with child. Ashara, who wept when he told her she must leave King’s Landing and have the child at home. Ashara, who would not utter the name of the man who put the babe inside her. She did not want to leave King’s Landing, insisted that she stay by Princess Elia’s side, but Arthur made her leave. He regretted it now; he did not mean to hurt her and make her cry. It was better for her reputation, he told her and himself. There was no need to allow the court to latch onto the dishonor and ruin her through words and whispers.

Arthur almost laughed at the sentiment now; here he was transporting a maid of five-and-ten, another man’s sister, to be seduced and impregnated by the crown prince. The gods had made a jape of him.

Yet there was no sense in lamenting this blow to his honor. His search for honor ended with his induction into the Kingsguard, Arthur surmised. Of course, his page in the White Book would say otherwise, but it was impossible to be a good man while wearing a white cloak. The Smiling Knight, the love of the smallfolk, the well-run regiments, the organized camps, the legendary sword, accomplishment after accomplishment that weighed as little as a feather on a set of scales where a boulder settled low on the other side. Still, people loved him. They looked up to him. They saw a white cloak and a pale sword, and assumed the best. Yet Arthur had never felt worse.

“Ser Arthur?” Lyanna’s voice called to him from beside her horse, whose head was bent low to drink from the river. “Would it be silly to take a dip in the water? I smell like something foul.”

Arthur didn’t even blink at this. The lady he’d been escorting for the last week and a half had proved to be an unusual one. “We have no soap,” he said.

“The water will be better than nothing,” she declared with a shrug. Without waiting upon another word, she slipped out of her boots (one of which held a dagger, as he learned earlier) and dipped a toe in the river. “It’s warm.”

“You’ll be riding in wet clothes all the day,” Arthur warned. “You’ll catch a chill that way.”

“Unless I take my clothes off,” she remarked with some cheek. He must have made quite a face, because she laughed heartily. “It’s only a jest, ser. My clothes need to be cleaned as much as I do.” She looked up into the sun, a hand placed above her face to block the light. “Those days of rain have made me used to wet clothes. The sun is hot enough to dry me by tonight, I think.”

Arthur couldn’t find the heart to quarrel with her, not after the little dispute they had a couple of days back. He still could not believe himself, offering her a chance to turn back. It was a moment of madness. Rhaegar had been clear from the start that should they find themselves separated, he was to take Lyanna to the Tower of Joy by any means necessary. But Rhaegar was not here to assuage Lyanna’s fears, or stave off her homesickness, or make her feel like she belonged with him. Arthur had believed that there was a chance that without all of this, Lyanna would want to turn back, to rush into the arms of her family, accept her fate as one better than homesickness. However, her will was like steel. She unknowingly spared Arthur the trial of explaining to Rhaegar of why he had allowed her to turn back.  _ I swore a vow. _

Lyanna sat at the river’s edge with her legs submerged. “Do you know how to swim?” He asked her.

“Well, know that you mention it, I don’t think I do,” she replied, sounding entirely unbothered by this.

“You’ve never swam before?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Think of where I live, Ser Arthur. The water would be far too cold, even in the summer time.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t get in the river,” he pointed out, a little uneasy.

“Maybe it’s not that deep?”

“My lady,” he said in a warning tone. Still, she moved to submerge herself. 

“Who?” She asked, smiling impishly.

“My lady, don’t--”

Then as quick as a dragonfly, she fell underwater.

Arthur waited one second, then two, then fell into a panic. If Lyanna Stark drowned under his care, he would have to contend with far more than Rhaegar’s disappointment. Without affording it a second thought, he dived into the water, and swam under to find her. The water was murky and difficult to see in; he moved his arms wildly before him, but caught hold of nothing. He rose above the water to catch a proper breath, and heard laughter.

Lyanna looked close to tears with how hard she cackled, and close to drowning too, so she clung to the river’s edge. “Did you… really think… I didn’t know how… to swim?” She asked between breathless laughs.

Arthur could not help but sulk. He had not been in the mood for japes to begin with, and had been well and truly panicked. “That was not funny,” he grumbled, pushing his wet hair out of his face.

“Yes it was!” She returned, laughing still. When she paused long enough to look at his face, her smile faltered slightly. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said with a hint of mirth. “It’s only that you’ve been so serious, and of course you won’t call me by my name…”

Arthur had had enough. He returned to the shore to find a spot in the sun.  _ My clothes are all wet now, _ he brooded to himself. He stripped himself of his shirt and laid it out beside him, hoping beyond hope that it would be dry by the time Lyanna was finished.

Lyanna pouted from her place in the river. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she admitted. 

“I am not upset,” Arthur groused, feeling more childish than Lyanna now. “You had scared me is all.”

“Might I consider that an accomplishment? I imagine not many people have managed to scare the great Ser Arthur Dayne.” She said this in a japing tone, but Arthur knew she believed part of it. It manages to dampen his mood even further.

_ Would you think me so great if you knew what I was luring you to? _

“Okay, it was a stupid jest,” she sighed. “Please don’t be cross with me.”

It was Arthur’s turn to sigh. She had a talent for wearing him down, her words whittling away at any upset. “I’m not cross.”

“Good.” Her face brightened with a wolfish smile before it popped back underwater, and emerged again. After wading around a little bit more, she clambered out, then bent over the water to wring out her hair. In her soaked, overlarge clothes she looked more like a girl than ever. Skinny in the waist, hips, and legs, small in her baggy tunic and trousers, freckles on her nose so pronounced he could count them from where he sat. When she sat down next to him, legs crossed, eyes closed, wet face turned towards the sun, he thought of a little sapling, still needing water and light to grow.

Yet he knew, as sure as dawn broke every day, that she would find herself unable to resist the hand that sought to uproot her. He had said it to Rhaegar himself:  _ she’s only a girl _ . She would be easily seduced, perhaps, but she was too young for captivity, too wild for quiet sorrow. Rhaegar had appeared so remorseful, violet eyes more melancholy than ever, when he said,  _ I know what she is. I know what must be done. _

What he didn’t ask then was,  _ but does she know?  _ Briefly, not long long enough to linger on it, Arthur wondered if that skinny body could carry a child at all, and live to hold it. Elia had hardly been able to, after all, and she had been older than this slip of a girl.

_ Elia… _

“Where does this river open into, Ser Arthur?” Lyanna suddenly spoke beside him. Arthur had nearly forgotten she was there.

“The Sea of Dorne, my lady,” he answered automatically, the map in his head always on the tip of his tongue.

“I knew it!” She announced triumphantly. “And my name is  _ Lyanna _ .”

He ignored that last part. “How could you know it was the Sea of Dorne?”

“It was warm. But mostly, I took a guess.” She smiled, her eyes still shut against the sunlight. “I cannot wait to get there-- to Dorne.”

At another time, he might have mirrored her thoughts. There was nothing more a Dornishman loved more than Dorne. This time, however, Arthur felt less than eager to see it again.

“Rhaegar told me all about how women rule in Dorne, about how ladies have a say in who they wed and where they go.”  _ Fanciful tales for a fanciful girl,  _ Arthur thought.

“That is not true for all women,” Arthur corrected, not willing to add to the lies. “There are houses in the mountains who do not let their women rule.”

“Whyever not?”

“They clung to customs of the First Men rather than adopt the way of the Rhoynar.” History, like maps, was always on the tip of Arthur’s tongue too. He might have been considered scholarly had it not been for the sword upon his back. “Nymeria and her people were not popular with everyone.”

“She was fierce, though. A warrior. As a child I wanted to be her; then Old Nan told me a story of how she was a witch cursed by the gods. I found witches rather frightening back then.”

“Old Nan?” Lyanna had mentioned many names on her trip-- namely Brandon, Ned, Benjen, sometimes even the names of stableboys and serving girls --but not this one.

“She was my grandfather’s wetnurse, I think. Or perhaps my father’s. Who knows; she had been with us for as long as my father is old, at least.”

“A long time.”

“Yes, but all she’s good for now is knitting and telling stories.”

Arthur wondered if the girl knew she had a gift for telling stories herself. She needed little encouragement to speak, and could speak for a long time. It made the long journey feel a little less exhausting.

“But I  _ know _ she tells me the stories my father wants her to tell. She used to tell me stories about knights and heroes; now all she talks to me about are women who rode horses and died, or women who carried swords and died, or women who ran away and died. I told her men do those things all the time and die too, so why doesn’t she tell my brothers about those men?” Lyanna wrinkled her nose. “She just laughed at that, and told me she knew a story about girls who don’t like stories.”

Arthur chuckled good-naturedly.

“She even told me the story of Brave Danny Flint when I was just a girl. She spared no detail, too.”

By the tone of her voice, Arthur surmised that this story was not a pleasant one. “I’ve not heard the tale myself,” he said.

“It’s awful,” Lyanna asserted. “It’s about a girl who disguises herself as a boy and runs away to join the Night’s Watch. Her name was Danny Flint-- Flint is my grandmother’s clan. It sounded like the sort of story I would have liked to hear, but its ending is not very nice. After she arrived at the Wall, some men discovered that she was a boy, and…” She trailed off, perhaps to muster the voice for the grisly details. “They raped her and killed her.” 

“What happened to the men who did that to her?” Arthur asked.

Lyanna looked to him curiously. “I didn’t ask,” she admitted. “Probably nothing.” She appeared dismayed at this fact.

_ Probably nothing indeed, _ Arthur agreed internally.

“We should start moving again, my lady,” Arthur said. He picked up his shirt as he got to his feet; it was still wet, but they did not have an ample amount of time to sit in the sun. He pulled it over his head.

“I’ll not move until you call me by my name,” she returned fiercely.

Arthur shook his head, but knew better than to doubt her. “Let’s go, Lady Lyanna.”

She looked as if she were considering whether this was acceptable or not. Then she shrugged, rose to her feet, and gracefully helped herself atop her horse. Arthur had to admit it to himself; the girl was hale and hearty and knew how to take care of herself. He had half expected the trip to be one of constant complaints and many stops, but Lyanna did not complain once. Not even when they rode for hours on end, not when it rained or grew dark. Not even when she was half asleep in her saddle. She was an able rider, perhaps even better than him. He supposed she had to be, for what she lacked in size at Harrenhal, she made up for in skill. The Knight of the Laughing Tree was a terrible foe to the three knights she unhorsed-- and instead of armor and horses, she asked them to teach their squires  _ honor _ .

It was no wonder that Aerys misliked the knight, and that Rhaegar saw the mother of his child in her. She was a picture of strength and health while Elia was not.

The thought of Rhaegar’s spurned wife was one of the few things that made Arthur Dayne well and truly furious. The Princess was bright, kind, gentle-- and frail and delicate of health too, but she had a different sort of strength. A woman’s strength. She was a Princess of Dorne, after all, and there were none so defiant and brave as a woman with that title.

If only she had been allowed more time. Allowed more than a year between Rhaenys and Aegon, allowed time after Aegon to recover and build her strength again. Arthur did not understand Rhaegar’s haste. It had been explained to him, of course, as Rhaegar had explained to him all things related to the prophecy, but Arthur did not believe in Rhaegar’s prophecy. He believed in Rhaegar, but not this.

Yet Arthur was hardly better than Rhaegar. He followed him, after all, swore to him to protect Lyanna Stark and her future babe, swore to be loyal to him until the very end. Arthur was still a Kingsguard-- only he had chosen a different king. He had also, once again, chosen the king over his queen.

_ I swore a vow. _

He wondered what Elia thought of him now. If she hated him, then she had every right to. If she respected him still, then he did not deserve it. He thought of her children too, especially little Rhaenys, who liked to hang from his neck and hide around corners to jump at him from. He thought of her chasing that slippery black kitten of hers, Arthur hot on her heels as she giggled madly.

_ How disappointed they all must be in me, _ Arthur thought unhappily. He hoped they hated him; he deserved their rage. He deserved it a hundred times over.

Words were wind, however. Not a single thought in his head would set things to right. Arthur chose to love Rhaegar. He chose to believe in him and follow him. He chose him as his king. For a man with no honor, Arthur felt honorbound. He knew his duty and swore his vows. He would follow them until the very end.

Now he only hoped that the young Lyanna Stark would take to Rhaegar’s bed without a fight. He had to believe that Rhaegar wouldn’t force the matter, that his silver tongue was convincing enough. No doubt the girl would think it a small price to pay for the hardship he went through for her, for his kindness and generosity. She would let him in her bed one night, then another, then another, until Rhaegar got what he wanted. He knew that when it happens, his friend would pin him with those melancholy eyes and declare the deed as done. Then Arthur would once again try to wash his hands of it, knowing full well he could never do so.

Looking to the boyish young thing riding beside him, Arthur doubted she would enjoy sitting still for very long. Certainly not for nine moons’ turns. Guilt ate at him now, worse than it had been from the start of this cursed journey. Arthur was leading her to great sorrow; he tried to make her turn back. He tried. Perhaps if he told her the truth…

_ I swore a vow. _ The truth was not his to tell. This was a secret that Rhaegar had trusted him with; it was the prince’s sole purpose. The truth did not belong to Arthur; only his vows did.

“Do Dornishmen let their women carry swords?” Lyanna asked from her saddle, pulling Arthur from his thoughts. It took him a few lingering moments to process her question.

“Swords, spears… some do, yes.”

“Are all Dornishmen like you?”

“How like me?”

“Quiet and dark and thoughtful. You look like you’re considering a hundred secrets.” She said it with a smile, but her words touched too close to the truth, cut too close to the heart.

“They’re not all like me,” Arthur returned, sounding as dark and thoughtful as Lyanna believed him to be.

“I’ve heard tales, of course, of hot-tempered Dornishmen, but I suppose that is all the invention of songs.”

Like  _ The Dornishman’s Wife _ . Arthur hated that song. “Do not believe the songs. Dornishmen are as honorable as they are fierce,” he said.

“Like you?”  _ Not, not like me _ . “Then perhaps that’s who my father should have betrothed me to. A good Dornishman.”

He did not quite understand the coyness in the smile she paid him, but he found himself agreeing with her all the same.  _ A Dornishman would offer you more than what Rhaegar would offer _ , he thought glumly.  _ Not me, though. I swore a vow. _


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Dayne practices a fatal bit of carelessness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little longer, to make up for the shortness of the last chapter. Enjoy :)

Even in darkness-- or perhaps because of the darkness --Arthur knew the place they would make camp in by sight. He had chosen it not for the memories, but for the familiarity of it; he knew the closest bodies of water, knew every chunk of crumbling stone, knew which spots had a better view of the stars and where to start a fire (in what remained of a storage closet, as it best blocked out the wind). This place and its surrounding area was mapped out to the finest details in his head. It had to be, with how often he had come here with Rhaegar.

Lyanna’s wide eyes looked over the ruins of the castle, perhaps as enchanted by it as Rhaegar always was. “What is this place?”

 _A place I know too well._ “Summerhall, or what’s left of it,” he answered.

“Oh.” She was silent for a minute longer. They both halted their horses to look out amongst what remained of what was once a fine and proud castle. There was nothing more than broken walls, ruined stone, charred wood. The fire had eaten stone and man alike. It was hard not to be stunned into silence by the sight of this place when you first look upon it. Great men had died here-- men like King Aegon the Fifth, and Ser Duncan the Tall. Heroes of noble boys and any man who carried a sword. They died on the day Rhaegar began to live. It was a harsh bargain. “Prince Rhaegar was born here, wasn’t he?” Lyanna asked, mirroring his thoughts.

“Yes. He was born as it fell.” _And yet, he prefers this place above all others._

“The poor queen. I cannot imagine what it would be like to give birth in the midst of so much death.”

The mention of Rhaella, however brief, stirs up more guilt. The poor queen indeed; she had no champions then, and no champions now. A night where a woman had to give birth amongst fire and death might be the worst night of her life. Yet Arthur knew that there had been nights just as terrible, with Aerys raping and ravaging her. Nights where Arthur stood by the door and did nothing. When Rhaegar married and moved to Dragonstone, Arthur had only been too glad to follow him, and put the queen behind him. _What a poor knight I am._

“You can feel how many people died here,” Lyanna mused aloud. “Don’t you feel them, Ser Arthur?”

“I felt them every time I came here,” Arthur admitted. In this, he had to agree with Rhaegar-- ghosts haunted Summerhall. Their sorrow hung over the ruins like a heavy blanket.

“You’ve been here before?”

“I’ve come here with Prince Rhaegar many times.”

“Why would he come to such a sad place?”

“For a sign, I suppose.”

“A sign?”

Arthur shook himself out of his reverie. “The prince is not easy to explain,” he said, hoping that would close the matter. Rhaegar had come here more times than Arthur had, sometimes even alone. He would look up at the stars and search for answers for a prophecy that had too many questions. He had come here as recent as the weeks after the Tourney at Harrenhal, contemplating whatever it was he learned since his last visit. There was no end to the prophecy, greedy, fickle thing that it was. It consumed Rhaegar, but Rhaegar loved it.

It was here that Arthur first heard of the prophecy from Rhaegar’s lips. That was years back-- the prince could not have been more than six-and-ten. He had sat up to look at the stars, head craned upward. Arthur had been lying upon his back, the grass growing up around him.

“Do you believe in prophecy?” Was the question the prince posed. Back then, Arthur would have believed anything Rhaegar willed him to believe. The prince was young, and melancholy, and good-- fundamentally good, down to his very bones. Arthur was eight-and-ten that night, but he had never seen anything like him. He had loved him for it.

“I’m not sure I do,” Arthur had answered, choosing honesty over flattery. The prince had no lack of the latter, and heard little of the former. Arthur was a friend, though, and friends did not lie.

“There is only one that matters. Only one that is true,” Rhaegar had said, silver tongue beginning to spin a silver tale. “The prophecy of the prince that was promised.”

Arthur had sat and listened, not asking any questions, too enthralled by Rhaegar. He had never seen the prince more passionate than he had been when he told him the tale, of the only war that matters, of salt and smoke, of a prince come to save the world, of the three heads of the dragon. Arthur almost believed it all; it was hard not to, with the way Rhaegar spoke. He had a talent for speech, a clear etherealness to his voice that became hypnotic when paired with this rare fire in the prince. Though he did not believe the prince’s story that night, Arthur had known then he would follow Rhaegar into any war, into any folly. He only had to ask.

“Swear something for me, Ser Arthur,” Rhaegar had said that night, words he would repeat many more times. “Swear to me that you will help me in this. Swear that you will never betray me.”

Arthur swore.

“Will we camp here for the night?” Lyanna called out to him, returning him to the present.

“Yes, my lady,” Arthur returned. He came down from his horse, expecting Lyanna to do the same and follow him. Instead, she remained rooted in her saddle.

“Must we?” Lyanna asked, appearing more frightened than he had seen her throughout this entire trip. “It’s so… unhappy.”

“It’s dark out. Our horses are tired. I know this place well, and it will serve,” Arthur returned, his patience running thin. He did not like this place without Rhaegar-- it felt deader than usual.

The girl mustered up her courage and came down from her saddle. Arthur led them through the ruins, muttering a warning to watch their step as they walked over and around fallen stone. He found the three broken walls, noting with mild amusement that charred wood sat where an old campfire had been. Either someone else had discovered his place, or it was left over from Rhaegar’s last visit.

They collected better wood for a fire, and while the flames burned without swaying in the wind, the place still felt cold. _The ghosts must have been wronged tonight,_ Arthur thought, though he was unsure if he truly believed in ghosts. Lyanna certainly looked like she did; she had hugged her legs to her chest and stared sullenly into the fire. She gave a few sniffles and rubbed her eyes.

“Are you crying?” He asked, before pressing his lips together. He had not meant to ask the question. If the girl wanted to cry, she could, and without embarrassing her.

“No,” she replied indignantly, sticking out her lower lip. “It’s just cold here.”

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. He reached back and yanked his cloak off his shoulders. He offered it to her. “Take this. It will warm you.”

“ _I’m_ not cold,” she returned, her words betrayed by a shiver. “It’s this place, that’s all.”

He did not like to see her this way. It was as if all the joy had been sucked out of her upon entering this cursed place. He could not blame her; she was not like Rhaegar, comfortable in sorrow. He thinks now that he had made a sore mistake in bringing her here. He had not meant to do anything more than find them a place to sleep.

“Ghosts cannot harm you. They say Harrenhal has hundreds of them; did they harm you when you were there?” Arthur asked this in hopes that he could draw her back to better, warmer memories. Yet not even a glimmer of curiosity flickered into her firelit eyes.

“I was braver then,” she said in a small voice.

“The knight of the laughing tree was bold, yes.”

This, at least, garnered a reaction. Her head popped up to meet his eye. “You know of that?”

Her piqued interest gave him some heart. “Of course I do.”

Still, she did not smile. “I hate the king for making me go away. I did what I came to do, but I wanted to do more.”

“Do you think you could have felled me in a tilt? Or Rhaegar?”

“Maybe. We will never know.”

“There will be other jousts.”

Her gaze turned cold, as if reading his lie. “You are not making me feel any better, ser,” she said plainly.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, feeling worse than he did when he first apologized. “Go to sleep, my lady. I will take the first watch.”

“When will you simply call me by my name?” She snapped. “You’d think I was asking for the world.”

 _This again._ “I am only being courteous.”

“I hate courtesy!” In the second after the outburst, her rage appeared to melt away. The knit between her brow softened, her eyes widened, and she looked back into the fire as stoically as before. She wiped at her eyes again.

Arthur tried not to stare at her, though he could not help it. One moment she was reserved and quiet, the other she had turned into the direwolf of her house, teeth bared and eyes narrowed, until she returned to her silent melancholy. There was usually a fire in her belly to match the one in her eyes, but it was little more than embers tonight. It almost hurt to look at her. Perhaps feeling his eyes upon her, Lyanna pulled her cloak tighter around her and curled up on the grass. Fire and shadow flickered across her face. Arthur thought he saw the glimmer of tear tracks too, but he could not be sure.

In time, however, she shut her eyes and went to sleep. The sight almost elicits a sigh from the knight; tonight was like putting a troublesome babe to rest. He could not help but pity her still; the emptiness of Summerhall could remind you of what you had lost, what you had left behind. Perhaps she thought of her brothers, of Winterfell, of all of those horses in her stables that she rode and named. Arthur in turn thought of his siblings, of Starfall and King’s Landing, of Elia and her children, of Rhaegar. How strange and how sad that his world had become so little. When he was a younger knight, it had seemed to him that world was endless and vast, yet not vast enough. Now he only thought in terms of those he loved, and those he was sworn to protect.

Arthur could bear such heavy thoughts and duties. The girl before him did not, or at least should not have to. He caught her shivering in her sleep, the ghosts dogging her in her dreams. Arthur picked up his cloak from where he left it, and removed Dawn from his lap to set it down between them. He walked kneeled at her side to carefully placed the cloak over Lyanna’s body. Her tremors seemed to stop almost immediately.

 _Poor girl,_ he thought, once again finding himself pitying the girl beyond what she deserved. It could not be denied that she walked willingly into this folly, yet she would not even know what this folly was until it was too late. Perhaps Rhaegar had planned to explain to her here, at Summerhall. He could see the prince, off to the side with Lyanna, her hand in his as he explained his scrolls and dreams. Perhaps he could make her believe when Arthur could not. Perhaps she would pity him for this burden he carried. Perhaps she would laugh and call it all stupid.

He hoped she would believe him, and view it as a duty, as Rhaegar had. Yet, she was so young, and so foolish, but if Arthur ever told her such things she would surely rage at him. Even in sleep her face was childishly serene, her lips parted in unspoken sorrow, lips Arthur knew that Rhaegar had already kissed. Her long hair was strewn around her head like a halo, some strands almost falling into her open mouth. One could almost too easily be fooled that she was as simple as a child, with how she slept like one.

She was lovely, though. Rhaegar would not have chosen anything less. Lovely, and wild, and wolfish, light of feet while the men around her sought to ensnare her. She slipped out of her father’s grasp, out of her brother’s, out of her betrothed’s, and fell into Rhaegar’s. No, that wasn’t right. Rhaegar was not here. It was Arthur who ensnared her now. Only Arthur could be blamed. A strange urge passed over him, one that asked him to touch her. Unbidden, his hand moved to push those strands of hair off her face.

Then suddenly, that hand was twisted painfully behind his back, his other following suit. Dawn was pulled out of reach, though he had no reach to speak of anymore. Two pairs of hands held him and forced him to his knees. Another hand, mailed, flew out to strike him across the face once, twice, three times, the pain blinding. The world spun around him for gods knew how long. Then Lyanna woke up screaming.

Yet another man held around around her waist, her arms pinned to her body by his hold. He held his dirk to her throat, his wicked yellow grin flickering in the firelight.

“You should have picked an inn for your honeymoon,” a man said, laughing a low and terrible laugh. “This is what you get for being cheap.”

Arthur spit blood before he found his words. “Stop!” He rasped, hating himself for his weakness, hating himself for not seeing them coming. They were four in all, Arthur noted, four men he did not hear because he was ensconced in his own foolish thoughts. Two had forced him on his knees, another had Dawn sheathed in his hand, the last had a wide-eyed Lyanna, squirming and kicking in his grasp, throat dangerously close to the blade. “Let us go. We have coin and food-- whatever it is you want, I can give it to you.”

The offer earned him a mailed fist to the stomach from the man who held his sword. He had long, greasy hair, an unkempt beard, and a wide, flat nose. Arthur would remember his face, as he would remember the face of any enemy.

“We’ve already found what we want,” the man holding Lyanna said. He was bald, and had scars crisscrossed on his face like a cat’s claws. The yellowness of his teeth was obvious in any light, framed by lips there were thin and cruel. “It’s odd you would have her dress in boy’s clothes, but mayhaps I shouldn’t judge a man’s tastes. She’s pretty, your wife is.”

Arthur tested his strength against the men who held him. In response, the hands on his arms gripped tighter, and brought him even lower. When the bearded man struck him again, Arthur saw stars, dotted by black pinpricks. Another hit would drop him cold. No, strength alone would not work. If he were to save them, he would have to appeal to something bigger.

“She’s Lady Lyanna Stark, Lord Stark’s missing daughter,” Arthur spit, more blood, and even a tooth, falling on the grass. He heard Lyanna give a louder grunt as she tried to move out of the man’s arms. “Her lord father will reward you handsomely if you turn her over unscathed.”

The man guffawed, then was echoed by the men around him. “Oh, of course she is. And I s’pose I’m Lord of Casterly Rock, and I shit gold.” They did not believe him; he did not think they would, not by words alone.

“She is. I swear it. I am Ser Arthur Dayne, of the Kingsguard. If you do not believe me, look at my sword.”

The man all laughed again. “Ser Arthur Dayne and Lady Lyanna Stark!” One of the men holding Arthur cried. Arthur craned his head to look at him-- blond, young, tall. A scar across his lip. “And I suppose we’re all landed knights with sigils an’ farms?”

“There’s a gauntlet in the saddlebag,” Lyanna said between gritted teeth, finding her voice. “A white gauntlet. A gauntlet of the Kingsguard.”

“Don’t try to spare your husband, girl,” the man growled in her ear. He pressed the edge of blade deeper into Lyanna’s skin, and Arthur saw blood trickle down the blade. “Once we’re done with you, we’ll cut his throat. Kingsguard. _Hah_.”

“Look at her!” Arthur shouted, his voice sounding gravelly and foreign to his own ears. Ser Arthur Dayne did not beg; he did not let himself get into situations like this at all. He felt like a man frantic. He must save her, he had to save her. “Does she not match the description? A maid of five-and-ten, with dark hair and grey eyes.”

The man hardly glanced at Lyanna. “A maid, you say? Well then, we’ll see.”

Lyanna groaned as she tried to fight off her assailant, throwing her elbows and feet wherever she could land them on the bigger man’s body. He took the blows in stride, hardly flinching as he pushed her onto her back and climbed atop her. Arthur struggled harder than ever against the men, pushing and pulling, but to no avail.

“Let her go!” He cried, his throat going dry as the man, laying flat against her, pinned one of her wrists above her head with one hand, while the other moved to the front of his trousers.

“No!” Lyanna screamed, a word that tore his heart out. “No, no, _stop_!”

 _No, no, no._ His thoughts mimicked Lyanna’s words. His mind threatened to wander, threatened to hide away so the sight would be easier to bear. _No, I cannot fail her, I cannot, I cannot--_

“Oi, men,” the bearded man said. He held Dawn by the hilt, and had it half unsheathed. The blade glowed in the night. “Look at this sword--”

Then, in the blink of an eye, it happened. Red spilled across Lyanna’s face. The man atop her paused before crumpling to the side of her, face frozen in a yellow grin. Arthur felt the grip on his arms slacken.

He took the opportunity and pulled himself out of their grasps in an instant, landing one blow across the face of one man, kicking down the other. The one that held his sword had his mouth opened in dumb shock. A kick to the gut landed him on his back, and Dawn flew out of his hands. In a single motion, Arthur unsheathed the blade.

And he cut them all down.

Fighting came naturally to him. He remembered training under Prince Lewyn as a boy, the older man telling him that he sword was an extension of a man’s arm. Something natural, something that belonged. It was not like that for Arthur. Arthur Dayne _was_ a sword, and he drew blood wherever he stepped. He did not think as he fought-- he acted, he swung, he severed and skewered. He cut them all down, until they were all dead.

Their bodies were strewn across the bloodied ground, but Lyanna and her dead assailant had not moved. He looked at her for the first time since he unsheathed Dawn. She was sitting up, her knees pulled to her chest, blood on her hands, her face, her neck, her shirt, and her dagger. Her eyes were wide as saucers, but they did not look up as he approached.

“My lady, we must move,” he whispered, kneeling to meet her eye. She looked to him in a quick, jerky motion, as if he had caught her by surprise. Still, she did not move, but she trembled something fierce. Arthur picked up his cloak from where it fell and wrapped it around her shoulders. He rubbed her arms though he knew it was not the cold that made her shake. “Lyanna, please,” he rasped.

She licked her lips, wiping off some of the blood that had spilled there, then nodded. On unsteady legs she got to her feet, refusing the hand that Arthur offered her. The dagger was still gripped hard between her fingers. Arthur reached for it, but she pulled back quickly. Then slowly, as if coming to her senses, she placed the dagger in his hands. He saw its sheath on the ground, and picked it up too.

“We will get you cleaned up, I swear it,” he said, his voice hoarse from fright and shouting. “But we must get away for now. Do you understand?”

She nodded shakily again and took a stumbling first step. Arthur steadied her with a hand on her arm and did not let go. He helped her atop her horse, adjusted his cloak about her, and even moved the reins into her hands. He placed her bloodied dagger into a saddlebag, then climbed atop his own horse. They rode at a slow pace, the best pace they could manage. They found what Arthur had been looking for in short time: a pond, one Arthur had used to water his horses a dozen times before.

Arthur jumped from his saddle and rushed to her horse. Lyanna acquiesced to being held at the waist as he lowered her from the saddle. Her hands gripped his shoulders so hard it hurt. When her feet touched the ground she stood frozen in spot, wide eyes looking into his, hands trembling on his shoulders.

“Did I kill him?” She asked in a surprisingly even tone.

“You did.”

She nodded vaguely. “Good,” was all she said. Still, she remained rooted to the spot like a tree. Arthur had a strange and sudden urge to embrace her, smooth her hair and assure her it was all alright. She had done well, thought quickly, behaved like a warrior. She put her life above that of a footpad’s, and that was well done. Instead, Arthur gently removed her hands from his shoulders, and led her to the water’s edge.

Arthur tore a strip of cloth off his cloak without removing it from her shoulders. He sunk it into the water and wrung out the excess. Slowly, carefully, he cleaned girl’s bloodied face with gentle swipes. She stared wordlessly at him as he performed this task. Over and over he wiped her face, then her neck, then her hands, cleaned the cloth in the pond when it was too bloody, and repeated this until every last drop of crimson was gone from her fair skin. Her finger had still been wrapped in cloth when he got to her hands, the bloodiest part of her. He unwound the cloth and set to cleaning them.

Afterwards, her small hand rested in his as he rubbed the cloth into the crevices of her fingernails. He wanted it all gone. He wanted it to be like nothing ever happened. He wanted her to be clean, untouched like the freshly-driven snow.

Yet, he knew she was not, and could never be. Killing a man was no easy task at the start. Their first kill-- no one forgot it. It was difficult to forget, just as it was difficult to do. Even when they deserved it.

They sat in silence for some time, her hand in his.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, for the third time this night. So many mistakes. “I should have been more careful. I did not hear them coming. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “It’s alright,” she murmured. “It’s okay. Nothing happened.”

Arthur blinked at that. Four dead men was not nothing.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?” She asked, reaching up to touch his face. She came away with more blood on her fingertips.

“It’s not my blood,” he said simply. He ignored the aching pain in his cheeks and stomach; bruises would fade in time, and a missing tooth was nothing.

“As long as we’re okay,” she said, even managing a smile, “then it’s alright.” Her optimism was not for her benefit, he realized, but for his own. She looked down at her clothes which had been stained with blood. “Can this be washed?”

“We may try. Blood does not come out easy, at least not without some soap. I have spare clothes in my bags.”

Lyanna shook her head. “You need those. You are not so clean yourself.” She tilted her head towards him. Indeed, blood had been spattered on his tunic and trousers, but Arthur did not care. _All knights must bleed. Blood is the seal of our devotion_ , his words, old words rang in his head. “I still have my gown, from when we first left. I will wear that. Clearly, I have fooled no one into believing I’m a boy. You should clean and change, Ser Arthur.” Her voice had a peculiar calm to it.

Despite his concern, Arthur chose to obey. He washed his face and hands in the river before finding his spare clothes in his saddlebag. Neither of them asked for privacy as they changed, though Arthur kept his eyes on the ground, where their bloodied clothes were soon piled up.

Lyanna was dressed in the gown she wore when Rhaegar had first swept her up on his horse. A gown of pale grey befitting a young lady. She approached him with his torn and tattered cloak in hand.

“Take this,” she said.

“Keep it,” he insisted.

“I have a cloak. This one is yours.”

He took it, and tied what was left of it around his shoulders. He would look like a ragged knight on the road, if anyone were to think him a knight at all. That would be a sight for daylight-- for now, they had no light but that of the moon’s. All the same, Arthur saw her comb her hair with their fingers and stare at her hands.

“More blood,” she commented idly. _All knights must bleed._ “I should wash it. My dagger too. Where did you put it, Ser Arthur?”

He answered. She strode over to the saddlebag and removed her dagger from it. As she returned to the river’s edge, Arthur sat on the ground and unsheathed Dawn. It too had blood on it, and needed to be cleaned. Ripping another strip of cloth from his cloak, Arthur set to work.

He had finished cleaning the same time that Lyanna had come to sit in front of him. He looked up at her and nearly gasped.

“Don’t look so alarmed,” she chuckled wryly. “I had wanted to do this for some time.”

Her hair, or what was left of it, was dripping wet. She had cut off her long dark tresses and abandoned them by the water’s edge. What was left was messily cut and barely reached her shoulders.

“It suits you,” he said, meaning it too. What an odd pair they would make on the road-- a bruised knight with a tattered cloak, and a fair lady with hair shorter than some boys.

“Thank you,” she returned, almost shy. “Do you know, you called me by my name before?”

“Before?”

“Right after you… well _we…_ killed them. You said my name.”

“Lyanna,” he said dumbly.

“Yes. That’s my name.” Her smile was framed by her freshly cut hair. “Does this mean I may call you Arthur?”

“You did not need my permission.”

“I want it anyways.”

“Then you have it.”

How odd this calm between them felt. When Arthur looked to her, and thought of what nearly happened, he wanted to weep. He had failed so much as a knight already, let a queen be raped as he stood outside her door, forced his sister on a carriage back to Starfall, let a princess be spurned and humiliated. Yet such things he had always seen as unfixable, things that were beyond his power. Had something befallen Lyanna Stark in front of him, had he been responsible for such a thing--

He took her hand, one that he had cleaned until her fingernails shone in the moonlight. To her knuckles, he pressed a kiss.

“I am so, so sorry,” he rasped. He would soon lose count of how many time he’d speak those words to her.

“There was no harm done,” she returned generously, but weakly.

“You took a life.”

She did not appear to have the words to respond to that. He had expected as much, even from her. It was not easy. She would think of it forever-- one more burden to consider in her time in the tower. Another ghost to haunt her.

“The man who passes the sentence swings the sword,” she finally murmured. “I saw his eyes. He deserved it.”

 _So he did_. “Is that from another one of your Old Nan’s stories?” He asked, forcing a small smile for her sake.

She had no smiles to spare. “No. That was from my father.”

“How did you do it?” He didn’t see when or how the dagger ended up in Lyanna’s hand; he only remembered the blood gushing over her.

“He pulled up my leg,” she recalled in a detached voice. “I reached into my boot, took out my dagger, and cut him.”

“Wasn’t it sheathed?”

“Yes-- I-- I wedged it under his knee to unsheathe it. It was all chance. He could have pulled up my other leg instead, could have bound both my hands, and then...”

 _Summerhall did not need more strife. The ghosts took pity._ The thought slams to the forefront of his mind, unbidden. A silly, superstitious thought, yet it comforts him. _Rhaegar’s ghosts are good for something, then._

“You thought quickly,” he remarked, feeling oddly proud.

“I thought like you would.”

The pride swelled until it burst, replaced with a feeling of shame so strong he bows his head. He did not deserve favorable comparisons or admiration. She might have saved herself from a tragedy tonight, but he was placing her on a path to another. _Quick thinking will not help you in the tower,_ he wanted to say. _Your maidenhead was spared only for tonight._ Dark thoughts, dark truths.

_I swore a vow._

“We should move,” he said, forcing himself to think of their future. He would have more time to consider his sins in the Red Mountains. “We ought to put more distance between us and those bodies.”

Lyanna nodded in agreement, but did not let go of his hand without a brief squeeze first. The two rode for a little longer until they found a better place to camp, nearer to a town-- near enough at least, that footpads would not be so bold as to come upon them. Though the ones they met may not have heard the town criers calling to search for a maid, others might have. They would keep out of sights for now.

“I will take this watch,” she said in a voice that begged no arguments. In her fist was her dagger, polished to a sheen.

Arthur set Dawn down between them-- then took pause. He picked up the sheathed blade again, and set it down across Lyanna’s lap.

“To frighten any others away,” Arthur said. She rewarded him with a grin so bright it made his heart ache.

 _Don’t do that,_ he wanted to say. _Don’t smile at me. Don’t pay me any favor. I am your enemy. It’s my throat you should cut._

When he laid his head down and shut his eyes, he tried too to push away thoughts of Lyanna Stark’s smile. He could not waver. He could not turn back now. He swore a vow.

_She saved my life._

The realization falls on him like rocks from a crumbling mountain. They would have killed him as soon as they were finished with her. She distracted them. She gave him the chance to fight. _And she saved my life._

His life meant precious little to him, but she saved it all the same.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Dayne does what is right, and not what is expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy! :)

Dorne was more than a place; it was a feeling. Arthur knew in his heart when they had crossed the Dornish marches and entered Dorne. The Boneway did not change its appearance in this new land, but he felt Dorne when he had stepped into it all the same.

He had explained to Lyanna that there were watchtowers in the mountains, manned by Dornishmen in times of war and conflict. The Boneway was a choke point, the bane of many men who thought to pass through unharmed. That was why they called it the Boneway— it’s true name was the Stone Way, named after the mountains of stone in the pass.

“House Wyl defends the northern end of the pass, and House Yronwood the southern end,” he had said as she looked along the mountains in fascination.

“It’s like the Neck, then,” she replied.

“I would not know.”

“To pass into the North, you must pass through the Neck. It is all bogs and swamps, but the crannogmen live there. Those who want to enter the North must face them first.”

“Crannogmen? Like your friend?” He recalled her story of the birth of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. She had done it all for a friend, a crannogman, who she said was small but brave and a loyal bannerman.

“Yes, like Lord Howland Reed. House Reed defends the Neck. They live in a moving castle,” she informed him casually.

“A moving castle?” He asked, disbelieving.

“Yes, Arthur, a moving castle,” she huffed. “It’s called Greywater Watch.” He must have appeared doubtful, for she added, “Why are you so surprised? Doesn’t Dorne have a castle in the sky?”

“A castle in the sky?” Arthur repeated. “You must mean Skyreach. It is not truly in the sky.”

“Well, that is what they say.”

“When we pass through Prince’s Pass, you can see it for yourself. It is flies no more than your crannogman’s castle moves.”

“I swear it moves! One day you should venture into the Neck, and try to search for it. You’ll not find it, and even if you do, it will not be where you left it should you return.”

He had chuckled and let her have that victory. Moving castles, castles in the sky-- they sounded like the inventions of children. Understandable, as she was little more than a child herself.

_ No _ . It would not do to think like that anymore. She was more than an innocent, wide-eyed child-woman, more than something to be plucked and made innocent no longer. Lyanna Stark had slept on dirt, rode for hours, killed a man, and saved a knight. She was a person of substance and strength and wit and charm, and Arthur had forced himself to see none of it, just as Rhaegar had. She deserved better than his derision. She deserved better than what he was leading her into.

_ And she saved my life. _

It hurt to think of that night. It had passed only a few days ago, but every time they had camped since then, Arthur thought of that night. The blood on her face, her hands, her clothes. Her sharp and steady stare. The comforting squeeze of her hand. She had been braver than any knight he’d ever known; braver and kinder and full of heart.

_ And I am leading her to misery. _

He wondered how he could face her after Rhaegar arrived at the tower.  _ Remember how you distracted the men with a kill, and saved us all? _ He would ask her.  _ Remember how I repaid you with treachery and deceit? _

What was more important? A vow or a debt? Arthur knew vows well. He swore one after the other until they corralled him into a pale excuse of a knight. There were vows of knighthood, vows of love, vows of honor, vows for the king, vows for the prince. They all dogged his steps until he submitted to being little more than a sword-- sharp, cold, unfeeling, something that could taste blood then wipe it all clean, over and over.

Arthur was unfamiliar with debts. He owed no one nothing, not coin or drink or favors. No one but this child-woman of five-and-ten.

He had thought of praying. He had not prayed in a long time, but perhaps the gods would show him an answer.  _ Will I be damned for an oathbreaker if I tell her the truth?  _ He would ask,  _ Or am I damned already? _ But Arthur did not pray, for there was no hope to be found in prayer. It would only be a moment of reflection, and Arthur already knew who he was.

_ A knight with no honor. _

When they passed into Dorne, Arthur felt the eyes of his countrymen on him. Dornishmen were proud. They were true to their word, fearsome on the field, and clever beyond compare. Outside of Dorne they were little more than the topic of jests and bawdy songs. It was always women who suffered it worst. He had heard it at court, of how they derided and mocked Elia and even little Rhaenys, who looked too Dornish for their tastes. He saw how men looked at his sister, hungrily, how toward they were with her as if they expected her to jump into bed with them without sparing a single thought. He had even heard it japed that there were two Dornishmen too many on the Kingsguard. Arthur wondered what his fellow Dornishmen had done to earn reputations so dishonorable.  _ They are not all like me. _

They rode further along the Boneway, further into Dorne. He did not expect them to escape the pass before nightfall. They would camp here for the night, dine on dried meat and bread. Dorne was a strange place in that there were few cities, and few villages larger than several houses big. Yet Arthur knew they could knock on any door and offer to pay for a meal, and a Dornishman or woman would kindly usher them in, fill their bellies, and take only half the coin offered to them, if they took it at all.

As the sun set, the two of them dismounted to allow their horses to rest at a slower gait before setting down for the night. The Boneway was empty, with the only sounds being that of the wind whistling through the mountains and the clopping of their horses’ hooves.

“Have we reach Dorne yet?” Lyanna asked, looking up at him with those sharp grey eyes. He had gotten used to her short locks quicker than he expected. It was still messy and uneven, yes, but perfection never suited her anyways.

“Yes,” he answered, and braced himself for her response.

She gasped. “You didn’t tell me,” she said accusingly.

“I did not think to.” He could not hide his smile; it earned him a whack on the shoulder.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say a word!” She scolded. “How long have we been?”

“A few hours, at least.” That earned him another whack.

“How could you?” She put on an insincere glare. “Traitor.”

Arthur nearly winced at the word, spoken in jest yet cutting straight to the heart.  _ If only you knew. _

“I cannot believe we’re finally here,” she enthused, nearly bouncing with each step. “Oh, we’re so close now. We are nearly there.” She grinned, and Arthur took another wound. “Then in time, we will see Rhaegar again. You have missed him, haven’t you?”

“Very much,” Arthur answered half-heartedly. The truth was he dreaded his arrival, and what he would bring with him.

“We shall have so many stories to share. But not before we write a message to my father. I must have worried him sick by now. I owe him a missive of comfort, at the very least. He may search for me all he likes, but I would have him know I am safe. That I always was safe.”

“You were not always safe,” Arthur corrected softly, remembering that cursed night.

“I had you. If I did not find a way, you would have. I truly believe that.” She reached out to tug at his torn up cloak. “You and I make a great pair, my tattered knight.”

Arthur’s mouth went dry. “You give me too much credit,” he half-pleaded.

“You are always so modest. It would not hurt to take pride in things every now and again.”

“There is precious little to be proud of,” he whispered before diving into alarm. He had not meant to say that out loud-- and Lyanna, as sharp as ever, heard him.

“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “My brother would say it was an accomplishment just to travel with me for as long as you have without going mad.”

“Your brother japes,” he returned weakly.

“Yes, Benjen is quite good at that.”

“I thought you meant Brandon.” He had learned more about the Stark men from her than he had ever expected to learn.

“Oh, Brandon would likely say it too, but Benjen would say it quicker.” She sported a smile that is decidedly sadder than the one before. “Ned would never say it. He is the only one of them who calls me ‘sweet sister’ and means it. Kind, honest Ned.”

“You miss them,” he said, filling in the gap. Her smile did not hide her homesickness as well as she hoped it would. It was a smile he remembered seeing on Elia’s face, in her first year in King’s Landing.  _ At least I have you and my uncle to remind me of Dorne, _ she had said kindly to him when he remarked on her sorrow.

“They are the only things I’ll miss,” Lyanna returned, not so fierce. “Them, and Winterfell, and sometimes even my father. I would have said goodbye to them all anyways once I wedded Robert. Storm’s End might as well be Dorne; it is so far from Winterfell. Who knows when I would have seen them again? Then of course, I would be the lady of a castle, and have children, so I’d be too busy to visit them and they would be too busy to visit me. Now I have cut out the husband, the castle, and the children. I will not be too busy for anything.”

Sometimes Arthur wondered if she knew all of the secrets he had been hiding from her; with words like those it felt as if she knew her fate already, and was waiting for him to admit it. Yet he knew she was clueless. He knew she did not know that the tower would be her castle, that Rhaegar would her husband in practice, if not in name, and instead of children, she would have a single child. She had hopped out of one snare only to step into another.

_ Perhaps she’ll like this cage better, _ Arthur thought, trying to reassure himself. _ Love can change a person’s mind so quickly. _

Arthur chose to overstep, just to set his rotten mind at ease. “Lyanna,” he began, using her name so she would not hide behind excuses, “do you love Prince Rhaegar?”

Like a maid, her fair face colored red. “I-- I don’t know if it’s love,” she sputtered, and Arthur realized this was the first time he had seen her flustered since they parted from Rhaegar. “I mean, I do not love him, not like a lover. I love him as a friend. I love his kindness, and his openness, and his generosity. Well, I  _ must _ love him, for he has done so much for me. But he is married, and I would not dare to get between him and his wife. That is not right. He can only be my friend, and little more.”

“He has kissed you,” he pointed out.

“And I am ashamed for having received those kisses,” she returned solemnly. “Just as I was ashamed for receiving his crown of roses. But it is strange. The shame passes so quickly with him. He has done much for me, you know. At Harrenhal he kept my secret safe, so I took his crown without protest. Here he has risked his reputation for me, so I let him have those kisses. He spent coin on me, he volunteered to arrange this all for me, he left me in the care of an able knight… I can never repay him, I know that. So I love him instead, and hope that is enough.”

_ You know better _ , Arthur wanted to say.  _ You know that is not enough. _ It struck him that perhaps she did know the fate that awaited her, or at least had some grasp on it. She knew Rhaegar had a price; she knew that when he named it, she would give it to him. It started out so simply until it grew and grew. A crown of roses at Harrenhal, kisses on the road, his bed at the tower of joy. Or did she believe better of him? 

_ I must tell her. Let her know Rhaegar’s price now, so she can choose to pay it or not. _ It would not end at warming his bed. It would end when she gave birth to his child. Would she pay a price that large? Was nine moons of her time, pain and agony, worth a taste of freedom?

_ I swore a vow,  _ Arthur reminded himself.  _ But she saved my life. _

Round and round it went. Vows and debts, right and wrong, honor and truth.

“Lyanna,” he said, voice raspy despite his resolve, “do you know what he wants?”

She was silent. Either she knew what he wanted and wouldn’t say, or she did not want to admit that she did not know.

“Did he ever mention a prophecy to you?” He asked instead. He felt himself cross a boundary then, a place of no return. He would have to tell her now, and not look back.

“A prophecy? Never,” she said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

“There is a prophecy,” Arthur began, feeling both a traitor and a knight all at once, “that his grace has lived his life to fulfill. He believes he must have three children, three heroes to save Westeros from an endless winter, the long night. He has two children. The Princess Elia cannot give him a third.”

Lyanna stopped in her tracks. Arthur did the same, and forced himself to turn around and look at her. He owed her this much— the truth, and to look her in the face as he spoke it. Her wide eyes seemed even wider, and the orange cast of the sunset made her seem like a slip of trembling fire amongst the dust and rocks.

“Arthur,” she said, in a voice that was half-pleading, half wroth, “that can’t be true.”

“He believes it. He has believed it ever since he was a child.”

“Do you?”

“No,” Arthur admitted. “But I believe in him.”

“You  _ believe _ in him?” She scoffed, appearing scornful now. “What does that even mean?”

_ It means he was the only vow I saw goodness in. _

“He does not want me for…  _ that _ ,” she sounded disgusted, yet Arthur had never said that was what Rhaegar wanted of her. She drew the conclusion, the correct one, all on her own. “He treasures me. He would not… he is a gentleman and prince.”

“Yes, my lady,” Arthur said, still trying to be loyal.

“Don’t call me that!” She howled, startling her horse. The beast jumped back onto its hind legs before hitting the ground again, hooves scattering dust everywhere. “I cannot do  _ that _ . I’m too young to marry, much less have a child. No. You’re wrong. He would never do that to me.”

“Lyanna…”

She balled up her fist. “I would never let him! I have my honor.”

“Of course, Lyanna.”

“Do not mock me.”

“I am not mocking you,” he said gently. “I know him. And I know you now, more than I ever thought I would. You tell yourself you would have not let him, and I know the prince would have convinced you otherwise.”

She shook her head. “ _ Never _ .”

“He would have slipped into your bed, and you would have paid this price for all that he had done for you.” She kept shaking her head. “He would come to you, over and over, give you the attention and kisses you so treasure—”

“Stop it!”

“No,” Arthur insisted gruffly. “You must hear it. You must know. If I take you to the tower, he will have his way, whether you will it or no. All those miles he travelled, after the scrutiny of Lords Tully, Stark, and Baratheon, he would name him price and you would pay it.”

“It can’t be for nothing!” She screamed, dropping her horse’s reins and marching toward him. “It can’t be for  _ that! _ All of this, all we’ve seen and done. The prince he— he was kind to me, and  _ promised _ —”

“Words are wind.”

“No! Your word is your honor.”

“There is no honor in promises, Lyanna.”

“There must be. Or how else can anyone trust anyone? I trusted him. I trusted  _ you _ .”

He winced. “I am a knight with no honor. You were wrong to trust me.”

He saw her eyes glimmer with tears. Instead of letting them spill, she met him with a shove that knocks him a step back and into his horse.

“You’re a liar. You and Rhaegar and everyone else. You’re all liars.” He feared this, the denial, the shock, the upset. He knew the truth would hurt her; he did not expect it to hurt him too. “None of you care about me,” she added in a breaking voice.

“I spoke these truths because I care about you,” he insisted weakly. Was it because he cared, or because he felt guilty? Was there a difference?

“You took me this far, all the way to Dorne,” she hissed.

“I asked you to turn back. In the Kingswood, and at Storm’s End. I asked you twice.”

“I didn’t know then!”

“You knew. In your heart, you knew.”

“Not about a child. Not about this  _ prophecy _ .” She spoke the word with disgust. Rhaegar would have been wounded to hear it.

“Then let me ask you a third time,” he said carefully. “Do you want to go home?”

To his surprise, she fell silent, and offered no answer. She turned from him, took the reins back into her hand, and urged her horse to walk onward.

“Lyanna,” Arthur called out to her. When she did not stop, he followed her. “Answer me.”

“Home,” she spat out the word. “I go home, and I am doomed to marriage and children. I go with you, and I am doomed to a tower and a child. What would you choose, Ser Arthur? A trap or a trap? I’ll make my own way.”

“Make your own way?” Arthur repeated, baffled. “How? Where? What do you know of Dorne? How will you live without coin, without family, without a trade?”

“I will figure it out. It will be better than being trapped in a tower, anyways.”

“Don’t be foolish.”

“Foolish!” She jeered. “Yes, that’s what I am. A fool. A stupid little girl who never gets what she wants, and each time she comes close, it is torn away from her. I’d rather die in the sands than be with you, or Rhaegar, or Robert, or my brothers--” He heard a little hiccup. “I don’t mean that. I love my brothers. I hate the rest of you.”

“Let me return you to them,” Arthur pleaded. He caught hold of her elbow but was pushed away. “We’ll turn back now. We’ll go to Storm’s End and have them send a raven to Riverrun. Your family will come for you, and all of this will be little more than a dream.”

“That’s not what I want. I want to be  _ happy _ , Arthur. I want honor, and love, and dignity, and choice. Yet even that’s asking too much.” She cast away the reins from her hand. “What do I do? Where do I go?” Her voice was small and breaking, but still her tears did not fall. When her eyes met his hand, he felt his heart break. “Why would you let me get this far? Why give me hope at all, if you knew it would be crushed?”

“I swore a vow,” he said weakly. 

“Then you are a hypocrite and as well as a liar,” she fired back tremulously. “How is it that the promises of princes are wind but the promises of knights are stone?”

“Lyanna--”

“Did you not once vow to the gods to defend the innocent? To protect women? To be brave and just?”

“Knight’s vows--”

“Yes, and you are a knight! Or so I believed. What other vows did you swear? Who is more important than the gods? Kings and princes?” Then suddenly her rage broke, and her lower lip trembled. “I thought you liked me, Arthur.”

“It is not about fondness or feelings,” he said in turn. “It is…” What is it? Not even Arthur knew.

“What is it about?” She asked meekly of him anyways. “I don’t understand. How can any of you do this?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know.”

She rubbed her watery eyes. “So, what then? Am I doomed? Have I damned myself?” He watched her as she cast her gaze along the Boneway. She searched for a path, he realized. Yet there were only two ways to go, neither one the way she wanted.

“Let us turn back,” he insisted. To return her to her brothers would at least be a promise of safety. “Perhaps your fate is not as bleak as it seems. Robert loves you, does he not?”

Lyanna shook her head. “He loves Ned. He wants to be his brother, not my husband.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “It is all about men and what they want, in the end. It has never been about me.”

Those final words reverberated in the pass as the two stood still in their places. Arthur thought this was supposed to fix things, that by telling the truth things would all be better, or at least, a little less worse. Somehow, he felt he’d backed them in a new and different corner.

_ If we go forward, there will be pain. We go backward, there will be pain. All of it belonging to her. _

Then there was Arthur and his broken honor, his broken promise. He was to bring her to the tower, not to tell her of the prophecy and make her doubt herself. He was to stand a sentinel to Rhaegar’s actions, unfeeling and cold, to believe in his heart that Rhaegar was good, and gentle, and did only what he felt he must. If he turned back, could he face his prince’s disappointment? Rhaegar trusted so few. He had been an unhappy child, haunted by a prophecy that held him in cold, dark vice. Yet he trusted Arthur, trusted his steadfastness, trusted him with his secrets and his fears. It make Arthur feel like he stood for something, for someone worthy.

To turn back, hand Lyanna over, and walk away would be not be good enough. He would simply walk back into the prince’s service, suffer his disappointment, and learn of a new plan, a new victim, a new twist to the prophecy that was not known before. Who would benefit from any of this? It was not Arthur, and not Lyanna. It was those who owned them.

_ Perhaps there is a way to fix things, _ Arthur thought.  _ Not, not fix. To help things, just by a little bit. _

“Let us camp for the night,” Arthur suggested. “Spend this night to think it over. Tomorrow we ride again, to wherever you want me to take you.”

She pinned him with a withering glare. “I should be running away from you, not with you,” she remarked with a sniffle. Yet even though her words held an edge, there was no fire behind him. Her shoulders were slumped in defeat, and her eyes turned glossy and cold. It was as if the flame within her had been snuffed out with the setting sun, replacing her orange glow with a dark blue one.

“I know,” Arthur returned meekly. “Please, just for the night, stay with me. Tomorrow I will try to set things to rights.”

Lyanna offered no response. She sat herself down in the shade of the mountains, legs pulled to her chest, her eyes fixed on the fire he built. He offered her food, but would not take it from him. He watched her as she buried her face in her knees and cried. He had to look, he told himself. He had to see what he had caused, what he had helped bring to fruition. He wanted to wrap her up in his cloak again, as tattered as it was, but knew she would not accept it. His protection had always been empty. Instead, he watched her as she wrapped her arms around herself.

“Lyanna,” Arthur rasped, hoping against hope that perhaps, he would be able to break through to her a final time. “I’m sorry.”

She met the words with a look he knew too well. It was the very same he’d received from Queen Rhaella, Princess Elia, and his own sister. It was a look of betrayal, of barely simmering rage, of defeat, of disappointment. 

“I am no true knight,” he admitted aloud, for the first time. 

Still, she did not reply. She turned her tear streaked face away from him, and leaned against the mountainside, silent and still. Silence was worse than rage, worse than hate. It made the night feel colder. 

Arthur turned his face to the stars. He often drew comfort from their light, knowing that the sword he wielded was born of one of their fallen brothers. It was a sword that cleaved the darkness, as the fallen star had surely cleaved the night. Tonight, the stars made him mournful. They blinked at him, as distant and cold in their disappointment as Lyanna was.  _ I was not always like this, _ he wanted to say aloud, though to the stars or the girl, he did not know.  _ I had honor, once. _

Arthur unsheathed Dawn and laid it across his lap. He ran his finger along the bright edge until blood bloomed on his fingertip. He let it swell and run along the length of his finger, until it dripped on the Dornish soil. The yellowing bruises on his face throbbed in time with the beating of his heart. It was time that Arthur Dayne stood for something, he decided. Something that required more than words and promises.

_ Words are wind.  _ Still, Arthur Dayne would try, one more time, to be a knight.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur takes a stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy!

Arthur had been afraid he would wake up to see Lyanna gone. She could have even taken Dawn with her, for Arthur had left it lying between him, as he always did. But she did not leave. She had waited until he woke to climb into the saddle of her horse and began to ride north. Arthur followed her. She never said a word, but he understood; she wanted to go home.

It was the choice he was hoping she would make, and the one he expected her to. To go north would be to go to family, to the brothers she so loved, to her crannog friend, and to her beloved Winterfell. There would be marriage, and things she had run away to avoid, but there was hope, too. At least, Arthur saw hope. He wanted her to see it too.

Day followed day, and Lyanna did not speak a word to him. Arthur tried-- tried to ask her how she felt, of what went on in her mind. He even strayed away from talk of her heart, and tried to speak of her of the horses, of gathering food, of the road ahead. She listened, of that he had no doubt, for she followed pertinent orders when they were given, but she did not speak. Somehow, her silence was worse than her tears.

Out of the Boneway, and back in the marches, they had the opportunity to hunt. Lyanna had proven her prowess at catching rabbits before, though when that had failed Arthur would take to archery, proving to be the better shot.

Lyanna caught the first hare, wriggling and tawny. Arthur reached out to take it from her, to break its neck as he always did. She drew it away from his grasp, wrapped her hands around the creature’s head, and a _snap_ was heard. She stared at the animal, now lifeless in her hands.

“You did not have to do that,” he said softly. When he reached again for the animal, she let him take it away, though her eyes remained fixed on her hands. He wondered if she found it easier to kill a man, or kill an animal. When she swiftly marched away from him, and back to their horses, he thinks he knows the answer.

They do not make the mistake of camping at Summerhall again. As the passed the ruins, Arthur spotted crows circling overhead. He supposed there must be vultures too, if they did not pick the footpads’ corpses clean yet. It was all they deserved, to die unmourned, unburied, to be a feast for crows. He hoped someone else came upon them, and robbed them of their coin and blades too. They deserved to rot with nothing.

He could not help but note Lyanna’s own lingering eyes, how they looked to the sky and the crows. Perhaps she thought the same as him.

After five days out of the Boneway, they came upon a small town, not far from Storm’s End. To be hidden was a less urgent matter; soon enough they would give themselves up anyways. They walked their horses to the town’s stables, to see them watered and fed. Arthur spotted an inn up the road.

“I’ll be a moment, Lyanna,” Arthur called to her. She did not deign him with a response, but set her jaw against him. He walked into the inn, where a stout, black haired woman shared loud conversation with some seated men, her hands on their shoulders. By her confidence, Arthur assumed her to be the innkeeper.

“Innkeep,” he called to her. The woman grinned as she followed his voice and looked to him. “A word, please.”

She loped over to him, hands on her hips. “What do you need, ser?” she asked, enthusiastic.

“Have you heard any news about the Stark girl?” _A maid of five-and-ten, with dark hair and grey eyes,_ he almost added.

“Still missing, from what I hear. Her brother, that Lord Brandon, is in Storm’s End. He’s still searching, I suppose.” She rested a hand over her heart. “I hope the girl is alright. They say Lord Stark has ridden all his horses to death looking for her.”

 _I am willing to believe that._ “Are there any men from the castle here?”

She nodded. “Aye, they’ve set up watchers in most of the towns now. One of them sits over there now, drinking. See the stag on his shirt?”

Arthur followed her pointed finger to one of the two men she had been chatting with earlier. He was a young, raggedy looking man, with sandy blond hair sticking out in all directions and he sported a stained shirt with a little black stag sewn into the breast of it.

“Thank you, innkeep,” Arthur said. “Have you parchment and ink? I should like to make use of it.” He rummaged in the pouch at his hip for a copper, and pressed it into her open palm.

“I do, ser, though I cannot read nor write. I keep it for smart men like you.” She patted his arm for a little too long, before she scurried off to fetch what he had asked for.

Arthur made his way to the man in the stained tunic. When he approached the table, both drinkers peered up at him in alarm.

“Drink with us, ser?” The sandy haired man asked.

“No,” Arthur said curtly. He pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “I hear Lord Brandon Stark is in Storm’s End. Is that true?”

“Aye, it is,” The man returned, before preparing to take a swig of his ale. Arthur reached out to quickly cover the top of the mug, and pushed it back down onto the table.

“You are a member of Lord Baratheon’s household?” he asked, and nodded toward the stag sewn into his tunic.

“Aye, I’m a Baratheon man, ser,” the man reported proudly; he puffed out his chest a bit.

“Will you send Lord Stark a message from me?”

The man blinked. “A message, ser?”

“I have the coin to pay you.”

He straightened, clearly approving of this line of questioning. He even pushed away his mug.

“Can you read?” Arthur asked him.

“No, ser.”

Just then, his ink and parchment was delivered. It was a small piece of parchment the innkeeper had rummaged up, but it was no more than what he needed. Arthur swiftly wrote his message, then he rolled up the parchment. He reached back to his tattered cloak and ripped a thin strip of cloth from it, then tied the message closed.

“Take this directly to Lord Stark,” Arthur commanded. “Do not tarry.”

He took the parchment suspiciously. “What if he’ll not see me?”

“Tell them it is about his sister.”

That much, he understood clearly. “Aye, ser, as you say.” He did not move until Arthur put a silver stag in his palm, but then he was off.

Arthur returned outside, to his horse, and to Lyanna. “We are nearing Storm’s End, my lady,” he said to Lyanna, who did not even pay him a sidelong glance. “I know a place where we may stay for the night. Our final night.”

She paused in brushing her horse, which was more proof of attentiveness than she’d offered him in days.

“Where?” Lyanna’s voice was hoarse and quiet as if from disuse, but it was like music to Arthur’s ears.

“A place at the edge of the Kingswood,” Arthur answered. “Less than a day’s ride from Storm’s End.”

Another silence followed, and Arthur thought that would be the last he’d hear from her again. He swallowed a disappointed sigh as he turned to adjust his horse’s saddle. The saddlebags’ contents made noise as they were jostled, and Arthur could hear his gauntlet at the bottom of one, clanging against a hunting knife.

“What will you do?” That soft, hoarse voice asked him.

Arthur did not look at her as he answered. “See you to safety.”

“But after that?”

“Return to King’s Landing. Send a message to Rhaegar, somehow.”

“Rhaegar,” she said the name as if it were foreign. “He’ll be disappointed.”

Arthur nearly smiled. “That’s not for you to worry about.”

“No. I have my own worries,” she admitted softly. When Arthur chanced a glance at her, he was pained to see her so mournful and her eyes so hard. _There is where the ice comes from,_ Arthur thought. _From those eyes._

“Come,” he said as he climbed into his saddle. “Our riding is almost over.”

“I never thought I’d be sick of it,” Lyanna returned; though it sounded like a jape to Arthur’s ears, her expression was not one of amusement. She looked tired, empty, hollow. All things that didn’t belong on her long face.

 _Pray tell me this journey did not steal your fire,_ Arthur pleaded within his own mind. _As fruitless and difficult as it was, I do not want to see you give up._

The place Arthur had in mind was clear of other travelers. It was made up of a small pond in a clearing of the woods, close enough to the edge of the Kingswood where one did not have to fear wolves and boars. It was a place often visited, as evidenced by the permanently flat circle of grass and the remnants of a cold campfire. It was their turn to set fire to it again, and sit upon the grass.

How many nights did they spend like this together? Arthur had lost count. No matter what they weathered throughout the day, from tired horses to wind-whistling storms, this was how they always ended up: sitting around a campfire, warm and preparing for a rest. They often shared in silence, but none more than the past week. He found that he missed their easy conversation, missed her stories about her brothers, and Winterfell, and her many friends. He missed her smiling at him through the fire, overjoyed simply by being in his company and on this road together.

Now she only stared into the flames, grey eyes somber as she rested her head on her knees. She even sat farther away from him than usual, straight across from him on the other side of the fire.

Arthur resigned himself to his place and to his own muted sorrow. _I deserve this, truly,_ he thought to himself. _I deceived her. I would not save her._ To deliver her to her brother would right only one wrong, that of the crime of stealing her away. But what of his other sins? What of Rhaegar’s resolve?

“Arthur,” Lyanna’s soft voice called out to him. His eyes snapped up to her, his whole body eager to hear her say his name. “Why don’t we run away together? To Essos? Just you and I?”

The question tosses him off his guard. He balked at her as he considered her question-- and what a question it was. He tried to imagine it, him and her on a ship to Essos, to a different land, an unknown future. It was an impossible dream.

“I swore a vow,” Arthur answered, and it was the truth. For all his dishonor, for all his wrong choices, Arthur swore a vow to serve. He could not follow his heart so foolishly.

“There are things worth breaking vows for,” she said, finally pulling her eyes from the fire and onto his face. “Honor, joy, love-- will you find them here, as the king’s knight?”

“I must be a knight, from this day until my last,” Arthur said. “I cannot be a knight in Essos.”

“Then we’ve done nothing to change our fates,” she returned somberly. “I will be Robert’s wife, and you will be a sworn knight.”

“You are young, Lyanna. Your fate is not fixed.”

“Then let us change it now, and go across the Narrow Sea,” she insisted with more fire than he’d seen from her in days. It gave him heart.

Still, he had to shake his head. “If Dorne was far from home, Essos will feel farther. There is still hope to be had here. We cannot keep running away.”

She fell silent, perhaps thinking of the brothers she was travelling north to see. Lyanna had been a girl of few weaknesses, but that of her family was her largest one.

“Sleep now, Lyanna,” Arthur commanded gently. “We shall rise at dawn tomorrow.”

With her shoulders slumped in defeat, she nodded and laid herself down. When he thought her asleep, he yanked off his torn cloak and drew it over her.

Her eyes fluttered open and close. “My tattered knight,” she murmured sleepily as she drew the cloak tighter around her.

Arthur wondered if he imagined those words. He hoped he didn’t.

 

* * *

 

Arthur rose early to sharpen Dawn.

It did not need sharpening. It never needed sharpening. It was made of starlight, of magic, and things made of magic could never be made better by a human’s hand. Still, he sharpened it because he liked the sound.

Lyanna had found sparrow’s eggs that morning and cooked them now over the fire. It would be a bland meal to break their fast on, but come nighttime, she would be feasting on foods much richer than this, in a lord’s hall. One final boring meal would be quickly eaten and soon forgotten.

“Arthur,” she called out to him, in a voice he’d know in death. He turned where he sat on his mossy rock to look at her. She had his tattered cloak around her shoulders as she walked toward him. When she reached his side, she made a motion for him to move over. He did so, and offered up a place on the rock, where she sat down beside him. She looked up into his face. “Thank you,” she said simply.

Arthur blinked, surprised at those words, words he surely did not deserve. “What for?” he asked.

“For your protection. For your patience, your kindness, and your honesty,” she said gently. “I will never forget our time together. I will never forget you.” Her messy short locks framed her face-- and her smile. It was small, and perhaps carried a little hurt, but it was a smile.

She leaned on him ever so slightly. She smelled of earth, and sweat, and smoke, but it was the sweetest smell he’d ever know.

“Please do not think I hate you,” she said. “I was cross with you, that’s all-- you were a true friend to me in the end. I think there is honor in you yet.”

Arthur let the silence envelope them. He wanted to hear nothing but the sound of rustling leaves, birds twittering, the crackling fire, and her sweet, even breaths. There was so much life around him-- so much life in her. He wanted to take this moment and stow away in his heart forever, burn it into the inside of his eyelids so he’d think of it every time he closed his eyes.

“Lyanna,” he whispered hoarsely. He did not want to look at her, but he had to. He owed it to her, one final time, to tell the truth and look into her face. Her bright eyes met his, innocent and wide-eyed. “Your brother is coming, Lyanna.”

Immediately she drew away from him, and straightened in her seat. “My brother? Brandon?” she asked, alarmed.

“He is in Storm’s End-- _was_ at Storm’s End. I wrote to him yesterday to find us here.” He glanced up at the sun’s place in the sky. “He will be here any moment now.”

She rose out of her seat and onto her feet, quick as a whip.

“No,” she half-whispered, half-hissed. “No. No Arthur, you must go.”

Arthur forced his gaze onto her. Fear came off her in waves, her eyes wide and frantic. Only now, there was little he could do to assuage it.

“Arthur, you must go,” she said again, nearly pleading this time. “Arthur, please! I don’t know what he’ll do-- Lord Brynden may not be with him, Ser Oswell is not here--”

“He’ll fight me, Lyanna. He must,” Arthur said quietly. “I challenged him.”

“No,” she said again, her voice louder this time. “Why, Arthur?”

“I swore a vow,” he said, but it felt empty. He swore a vow to keep Rhaegar’s secrets, and broke it. He swore a vow to protect her, and failed. He swore a vow to escort her to Dorne, and did not. If he had to break another vow, he would do so valiantly. “I tire of serving them,” he confessed, more honest now. “Rhaegar, Aerys… The things I have seen and done, the things I have ignored; if you knew, Lyanna, you would hate me.”

“I wouldn’t. I _couldn’t_ ,” she insisted. He loved her for her loyalty, even now when he did not deserve it.

“There is no escape from the Kingsguard but through death,” he explained gently. “But more than that, I hope it will change Rhaegar. Perhaps if he saw what his prophecy has caused…” He thought of Lyanna, of Elia, the women hurt most by his dreams of princes and warriors; if there was a chance to spare them further pain, he had to take it. “He loves me, I know, and he’ll miss me keenly. Perhaps that will be enough to change his mind.” He knew Rhaegar would stop at nothing; but this… perhaps he’d stop at this.

He thought of that questions she had posed five nights past: _‘Who is more important than the gods? Kings and princes?’_ Arthur Dayne had done his share of answering to kings and princes; it was time to answer to the gods.

“Brandon will kill you,” she said in a trembling voice, right on the edge of a sob.

“Would you rather I kill him?”

The question strikes her silent for some time. _No, you would not rather that,_ Arthur answered for her. _I do not blame you for it._

“Please, go now,” she begged, leaving his question unanswered. “ _Leave_. I will marry Robert if I must, but I cannot bear the thought of you--” She could not finish her sentiment. She dropped to her knees beside him and grabbed his arm. “Please, Arthur.”

“You may tell them whatever you must about me,” Arthur said gently. Her eyes had melted from chips of ice to lovely grey pools, beautiful enough to drown in. “Tell them I kidnapped you. Tell them I raped you and did unspeakable things to you, if it saves you from marrying.” Perhaps she did not need to tell them; he told Brandon he had taken her, and that he must fight him for her, but he had no doubt his imagination would venture further.

“No!” she shouted; her nails dug into his arm. “I won’t add to the lies. Why can’t I have a single honest thing in my life? An honest love, an honest man, and honest life?”

“You can,” he said softly. She shook her head fiercely. “I ask a single favor from you,” he continued despite his desire to stop, to look away, to face his fate. “See that Dawn is returned to my family. My bones too, if you can.”

At his feet was his gauntlet, pearly white and glistening. He stuck Dawn into the ground long enough for him to slip on the gauntlet over his right hand, his sword hand; it embraced him like an old friend, familiar as if it were a part of him.

Lyanna let go of him suddenly and jumped to her feet. “If you will not go, then I will. I will not watch you die,” she said through gritted teeth. Arthur caught her arm before she was out of reach, and pulled her back.

“Please, Lyanna,” he begged, though for what he did not know. “Please, do not forsake me now.” Despite the angry knit of her brow, tears tracked down her ruddy cheeks. _You gave me another chance at honor. You saved me, in more ways than one,_ he wanted to say, but could not place that burden on her. “Thank you,” was what he said instead. He cupped her face in his gauntleted hand and pressed a kiss, light as air, on her forehead.

The sound of pounding hooves was coming closer, closer, closer. They would be upon them at any moment now. Lyanna struggled against the grip on her arm, but Arthur persisted, even as her sobs grew louder.

 _There is so much I didn’t say,_ Arthur mused somberly as the riders approached. _Queen Rhaella, Princess Elia, Ashara-- I owe them all apologies. I did not deserve to be their knights._

When the first horse and rider burst through the trees, Arthur took hold of Dawn, and pulled Lyanna against his chest, her back against him. The blade was all that stood between them and a wild-eyed Brandon Stark.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear. When her sobs grew heavier, he held her a little tighter.

“Release her!” Brandon roared as he jumped off his horse. He drew his sword quickly and pointed it at them.

“No, Brandon, no, no,” he heard Lyanna plead as she struggled against his hold. “Please, Brandon--”

More riders came and surrounded them. They were five men in total; they jumped off their horses to form a circle, but unlike their leader, they hesitated to draw their blades.

“Lord Brandon,” one of them, a man with an anxious face and thinning hair, seemed to plead. “There is no need for violence. Ser Arthur Dayne is an honorable knight--”

“Honorable?” Brandon repeated in wolfish growl. “An honorable knight does not kidnap highborn girls. I am owed blood!”

“He did no such thing!” Lyanna screamed from the circle of his arm. “He did not lay a finger on me. He is honorable, he _is--_ ”

Arthur released her, though she would not move.

“Take her!” Brandon boomed. “Hold her!”

One men stepped out of the circle to seize her, but she fought hard and fierce.

“Take her!” Brandon repeated as he stepped closer, the blade coming nearer too.

A second man caught hold of her and pulled her back, away from the two men who had their blades drawn. Lyanna shouted and begged the way she did at Summerhall; only now her captors were her protectors, and no dagger would save them.

_I wish you could see this, Rhaegar._

Arthur flexed his right hand, his only armor, before it joined his left on the hilt of the greatsword. He tried to drown out the sound of Lyanna’s cries, changed his focus only on his opponent. Tall, strong, wild Brandon Stark, who looked more wolf than man in that very moment.

 _All knights must bleed,_ Arthur thought as he prepared to block that first swing. _Blood is the seal of our devotion._

Never had he been so devoted to a person than he was now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (don't kill me)


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned Stark rides away from the Vale, toward Riverrun, and will ride away again.

 

It made Ned’s head hurt to think about what had transpired-- not for the questions that had answers, but those questions that were still shrouded in mystery, known only to his sister, Lyanna.

Robert had raged when they first heard news of what had happened: Lyanna gone, kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar. He wanted to take quick action, to leave the Vale and join the search. Yet his lord father’s letter bade them to wait a while, to see if it could all be resolved, and Lyanna found, before the Vale and the Stormlands needed to intervene. Indeed they waited, until Brynden Tully found Prince Rhaegar, absent Lyanna. By then, Robert could not be convinced to remain in the Vale-- and in truth, neither could Ned.

He had been fretting for the better part of the past moon’s turn, worrying and wondering what might have happened to his little sister. He struggled even to imagine someone as noble as Rhaegar being able to carry her off; Lyanna was willful, it must be said, and knew how to hold her ground in all manner of arenas. It often led Ned to believe she was some sort of invincible, bold strong against men of all ages and sizes, her tongue as sharp as the shoves she sometimes paid those who made her irate. Ned had tasted a shove or two from Lyanna himself-- in fact, none of his brothers were spared her occasional ire, but she had a gentle heart underneath. For all her wildness and boyishness and temper, his sister did not know how to hold a grudge, and she rewarded those she loved with affection and loyalty beyond compare.

His fretting only grew worse when they arrived in Riverrun, surrounded by dour-faced men. Lord Hoster Tully was in a state of permanent disgruntlement, the Blackfish did little more than glare all the time, and his lord father was the worst of all. Rickard Stark’s ire was a cold one, with his manner of speech blunt and pessimistic.

“Your sister is ruined,” were the first words his father said to him in regards to this whole affair. “She has shamed us all, and worse, she had been willing.”

Ned had been too afraid to ask why her being willing was worse. It brought Ned greater comfort to know that she _chose_ to run off with Rhaegar, for if Lyanna had been forced into anything, it would surely break his heart.

On the other hand, Robert erred on the side of optimism. “She is fine, I’m sure of it, and still a maid,” he insisted to Ned quite fiercely. “We’ll find her soon enough, and then we can put this all behind us. I’ll marry her as soon your father will let me, I swear it.” He said it as if he were doing them all a favor; Ned doubted that Lyanna would want to marry so soon after such an ordeal, especially not to Robert. And what if she came to them in a worse state than they had all hoped? If Arthur Dayne did not find her, if the searchers did not find her, they would have to assume the very worst. Lyanna was beautiful, and as strong as she was, she would surely be no match up against a few cruel footpads.

So Ned waited in his characteristic silence, caught between his lord father’s dark mood and Robert’s sunny, hopeful one. While they all discussed Lyanna in terms of wholeness and worth, Ned simply hoped she was alright. She did not have to be perfect-- just alright enough to where she would still be Lyanna, still be his sister, sweet and fierce and wild.

Then one day, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, Brandon burst through the doors of Riverrun, sudden and unannounced. “Where’s my lord father?” he shouted, and even from rooms over Ned could hear him. When he rushed out to meet his brother, he was surprised to see him frantic and wide-eyed.

“Brandon,” Ned called out. “Did you find--”

“Yes, I found her,” Brandon returned sharply. He was in a dangerous mood. “Where’s our lord father?”

Other men had gathered around, men were undoubtedly as alarmed as they were curious about this sudden intrusion.

“Where is she?” Ned asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“Still on her horse-- Ned, listen, you must fetch our father,” Brandon returned sharply as he half-ran over to his side. “Matters are--”

“Why didn’t you send word you were coming?” Rickard Stark’s voice could be heard over the commotion, cold and booming.

“I did not think of it. I rode here so swiftly I damn near killed my horse,” Brandon sniped, his voice hard and snarling.

“You found her?”

“Aye, I did, but…” Brandon trailed off, and looked around him to see the other men who had gathered. “I need a private audience before I can bring her in.”

“Lord Brandon,” a soft, female voice called from the top of the stairs. Lady Catelyn Stark, his brother’s betrothed hurried down them and stopped before her husband-to-be. “I am glad to see--”

“Not now,” Brandon shut her down harshly. His beautiful bride batted her long lashes in confusion. “Gods be good, does no one know the meaning of private?” he added in a louder voice, directed at everyone around him.

“My lord,” Lady Catelyn said softly, paired with a curtsey, appearing to Ned to be more than a little hurt by this dismissal.

“You’ll have your privacy,” Hoster remarked coldly from beside his father, none too impressed with the scene that played out. “My solar will suffice.”

“No,” Brandon said sharply. “A bedchamber. You’re not invited to this audience, my lord. My father and my brother will suffice.”

“Don’t be insolent, Brandon,” their father chastised.

“Your daughter is in no state to be hounded!” Brandon howled; his rage had descended on him, quick and hard. Ned could only wince from this distance. “Clear this bloody hall, open up a bedchamber, and I’ll bring your daughter to you! That is only if she’s worth anything to you by now.”

The silence that fell upon the hall was nothing short of chilly. All the same, men cleared out, somber-faced Lady Catelyn included. The closest bedchamber was found, and Ned and his lord father were sentenced to it like unruly children. While his father was certainly in a foul mood that was only growing fouler, Ned was only anxious to see what the fuss was about. Robert was not here-- he had gone out hunting --and Ned was made only more grateful for it.

When Brandon arrived, it was with Lyanna firmly in hand, an iron grip around her thin arm. She wore a torn cloak that hooded most of her face, wore a gown dirty and tattered, held an unusual white gauntlet in her hand, and clearly unhappy to be in Brandon’s grip.

“Let go of me,” she hissed, in a rueful voice that was blessedly and undoubtedly Lyanna’s. “Of all the things you’ve done to me, _this_ is what shames you. You walked me through that empty hall as if I were naked--”

“Enough. Please,” Brandon rasped, his voice both hard and distressed. When she finally made free of him, she tugged away her cloak. Brandon could only look away.

Ned wanted to look away too, but he was transfixed. Aside from the dirt on her face and her messy, chin length locks, she sported a bloody, dirty bandage that started at her right temple and crossed straight across her face to just below her left ear.

Following a long and terrible silence, their father finally croaked, “What happened?”

“Brandon killed Ser Arthur Dayne,” Lyanna answered quicker than Brandon. She sounded dangerously close to a sob. “He killed a true knight who was good and kind--”

“I am not asking about Ser Arthur Dayne,” their father interrupted harshly. His lip twitched in anger beneath his greying beard. “I am asking about your face.”

“It was… an accident,” Brandon rasped. The words were enough to make him sway, and he sat down in a chair opposite the bed they perched upon to steady himself. “When I was fighting the knight, she jumped in front of me and I pulled back, I swear, but…”

“You did this to her?” Ned thinks he’d ever heard father’s voice so cold and empty.

“An accident,” Brandon repeated, almost pleading.

“Yet you continued anyways, and killed the knight?”

“I had to finish what I started,” Brandon insisted. “He took her.”

“Well done,” their father clipped icily. “Now we’ve a dead knight of the Kingsguard, and a girl who has been ruined beyond my worst nightmares.”

To Ned’s alarm, Lyanna laughed, but it was unpleasant and curt. “Ruined?” she repeated ruefully. “What, now you can’t sell me to Lord Robert? As if I would have ever married him. I would rather die.”

“If he will even still have you, it would be a miracle.”

“Robert loves you,” Ned said, finally finding his voice. “He has only asked for your safe return ever since--”

“Enough, Ned!” she returned, sounding exasperated. Her wide grey eyes fixed on him with an emotion that seemed to announce betrayal. “Surely, you know better than that by now?” Her rage melted away, and her expression softened as she held the gauntlet in her hand against her chest. “Ser Arthur’s sword must be returned to his family,” she said to their father, unphased by his hard eyes. “His bones as well. We have brought them with us.” She could not finish the sentence without her lip trembling.

“Why was that not done when you were farther south?” Their father directed the question toward Brandon.

His brother lifted his hands in resignation. “I was going to send Ethan to take care of that, but Lyanna insisted it be one of us.”

“I want to take them,” Lyanna said, her voice thick.

“No,” their lord father denied her firmly. Ned watched as the last of Lyanna’s restraint dropped, and the first of her tears streaked down her dirty, bandaged face. “Eddard, you will return them. Let it not be said that House Stark treated Ser Arthur Dayne dishonorably.”

“Brandon killed him for nothing!” she howled as she sniffled. She quickly reached up to rub at her nose with the back of her sleeve. “ _That_ is dishonorable. He did nothing wrong! He protected me, he was a good knight and true--”

“He challenged me!” Brandon cut in.

“Because he had to!”

“He took you, played a part in your kidnap, raped you--”

“He did _not_!”

“He did not lie with you?” their father asked.

“That is what she claims,” Brandon returned acridly. “People will say otherwise.”

“He did not take my maidenhead, the useless thing that it is,” Lyanna added. “He took my heart, and that is more than Robert will ever have--”

“I have heard enough,” their father cut in again. “You have shamed us all, girl, and your fool brother has managed to mar you as well. If Robert will have you, I will see you married as soon as tomorrow.”

“I will not marry him!” she retorted, her face darkening with rage. She had her stance that implied a shove might follow, though Ned knew she would never think shove their father.

“I will send servants to prepare you a bath and fix that horrible hair of yours,” Rickard continued, ignoring her. “I’ll speak with the maester and see if he can stop that from scarring too deeply. Attempt to right yourself and make yourself proper enough to look upon by the time your betrothed returns.”

“I will do none of that!” she roared, angrier than Ned had ever seen her. Her small form trembled like a leaf in a gale, and her fist was clenched so tight her knuckles were turning white. “I will stay exactly as I am, exactly as you dislike!”

Their father left the bedchamber, unwilling to hear anymore. Ned could only sit in silence as he looked between the haggard Brandon and the silently weeping Lyanna. She gripped the gauntlet as if it were her lifeline, the last thing that kept her tethered to this world.

“I am sorry for cutting you,” Brandon said quietly. “I am not sorry for what I did to Ser Arthur Dayne. It was a fair match.”

“He let you win,” Lyanna hissed. “He could have killed you with his hands bound and his eyes closed, only he didn’t because he did not want to upset me.”

“Then he should not have challenged me,” Brandon said sharply.

“You would have fought him anyways. That’s all you ever do, fight people and bloody your sword.”

Brandon rose abruptly and stormed out of the room. Ned stared at his sister, who was familiar in some regards yet foreign in others. Though her rage was clearly still upon her, she wept quietly and endlessly, sniffling and uselessly wiping away at the tears that still fell, managing to at least clean the parts of her face that weren’t obscured by the bandage.

 _It is not a pretty cut,_ Ned could not help but observe. Still, he would preferred a scarred and weeping sister to no sister at all.

“I am glad to see you again, sweet sister,” Ned said awkwardly, unsure of how else to comfort her.

To his surprise, she threw herself at him, kissed his cheek messily, then buried her face in his chest as she embraced him. Ned could not help but embrace her back, and kissed the top of her messy head. The gauntlet she held pressed against his back, but it was a small discomfort, and easily forgotten.

“You had us worried,” he said softly as she continued her soft sobs.

“I came back for you all,” she said in a small voice. “Now I am beginning to regret it.”

“Where were you going?”

“To Dorne. With Rhaegar. But Rhaegar was separated from us, and then… I wish I was there now, with him.”

“With Rhaegar?”

“No. With Arthur.” The name brought on a heavy sob. “He was good, Ned, I promise. A true knight who cared for me.” She drew away from his chest to look up at him with puffy, red eyes. “Ned, I cannot marry Robert. I will not. Please ask Robert to change his mind.”

Ned hated this, being caught between loyalty to his sister and loyalty to his friend. He wanted to defend Robert in that moment, to try again to insist that he was not all he seemed, but knew it was not the appropriate time. Instead, he sighed and smoothed his sister’s hair out of her face.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ned said, trying to be as vague as possible so he did not have to lie. Still, Lyanna’s eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope. “I should like to ask a single favor from you.”

“Yes, Ned?”

“I know what you said to father, but… you should take a bath, at least,” Ned remarked honestly. “You have dirt everywhere.”

She sniffled, then chuckled through her tears. “Only you would care about such a thing,” she mumbled. “I’ll bathe, but I’ll not have my hair fixed.”

Ned nodded. “Whatever you want, Lyanna,” he said. “I’m only glad you’re back.”

She was still sniffling and wiping away tears when he left her, but now he was left feeling unsure of what to do. Should he seek out his father and try to cool his rage? Should he seek out Brandon to inquire more about what had happened?

 _Ser Arthur Dayne is dead,_ Ned mused internally, trying to grasp the concept. The knight was a legend in his own right, and his sword was just as famous. _Father wants me to return his sword and his bones._ Ned was not looking forward to that. The beautiful Ashara Dayne was at Starfall, after all, and the last time he saw her he had hardly been able to form two words in front of her. Now he must present her with what remained of her brother.

It would be a difficult thing to explain to the king-- his best knight was dead. Even if Brandon had a right to do so, such a thing would only serve to widen the rift between House Stark and House Targaryen. Then there was Prince Rhaegar’s involvement in the matter; it could not be denied that it was him who swept her up on his horse, and him who lost Lyanna.

 _He’s the prince, and nothing will happen to him,_ Ned thought with a pinch of bitterness. _Meanwhile, my sister’s reputation has been ruined._

He was thinking like father, and thus he quickly banished the thought. There were far worse things than a bruised reputation. Perhaps Robert would see it that way too.

Ned searched the castle for Brandon, after having decided that he would make marginally better company. He checked all the places he might be in, but found him in none of them. He went outside, to the bridge that crossed over the river that surrounded the castle. The afternoon air was humid and sticky, but a blessed breeze served to counter some of it. That was also where he found Catelyn Tully, auburn hair stirring over her shoulders, clutching a piece of ribbon in her closed fist.

It had to be said that Ned was not very good at speaking to women, especially not beautiful ones. In this, as in many things, he was Robert’s polar opposite. Still, Ned swallowed some of his shyness. Perhaps she knew where Brandon had gone.

“My lady,” he mumbled from behind her. She did not stir. “My lady,” he tried again, in a louder voice.

She whirled around quickly. Her big blue eyes were swimming with tears unshed, which only served to drive Ned into further shyness.

“My… My lady,” Ned managed to stammer. “Have you… seen him? My brother, that is. Brandon Stark.” _Fool, she knows who your brother is. She is betrothed to him._

In the blink of an eye, she seemed to gather herself. She had straightened, the tears were gone, and her face was a hard, unreadable mask. “He rode off,” she said coldly. “Lord Brandon does what he likes, it seems.”

“Er, yes, that he does,” Ned returned in a mumble, almost frightened by her demeanor. “Rode off… where?”

She shrugged carelessly. “Who knows?” she said, before sweeping past him and back into the castle.

It seemed to Ned that perhaps the time would be better passed alone.

 

* * *

 

When Robert returned, he was in a mood.

“I demand to see her!” he had howled as soon as he stormed into the castle. When he caught sight of Ned, he clasped his arms and shook him. “Tell me she’s safe, Ned. Tell me she’s well and whole and in good spirits.”

“Robert…” Ned began with a measure of reluctance.

“Lord Robert,” Rickard Stark’s perpetually disappointed voice boomed from the doorway of the Great Hall. He appeared less irate than he was earlier today, but not by much. “I believe we should speak.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I would like to see Lyanna first,” Robert insisted fiercely in turn. His emotion was crackling off him like a thunderstorm; there would be nothing that could stand in his way.

“It is more pertinent that we speak,” Rickard returned firmly.

“No,” Robert said curtly. “Ned, take me to her.”

“Robert, she is in a… fragile state,” Ned struggled to find the proper word. “Let me speak to her first, see if she will have you. In the meantime, my lord father--”

Those were the wrong words. Robert appeared to fume. “She is my betrothed!” he bellowed, growing red in the face. “I _will_ see her!”

“Just a moment, Robert, please,” Ned tried again. “You would not want to upset her. She has been through an ordeal.”

“Who hurt her?” he asked. “I will kill him, whoever it is, I swear it.” His blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “Starting with Rhaegar.”

“There has been enough death,” Ned returned somberly. “Just a moment, Robert.”

He lead them to the doors of Lyanna’s chambers. Ned knocked.

“It’s me, Lya,” Ned said softly. “May I come in?”

“Go ahead,” her voice came softly from the other side.

Ned slipped in alone, despite Robert’s adhesion to the back of his heels. His sister was sitting on her bed, her legs pulled to her chest in a crisp gown of black. She was bathed, as her face was clean and bright, and her short, messily cut hair still a little wet. The bandage on her face was gone, and Ned was greeted with the sight of a long, wide scab across her face. It did not bleed, but it was more difficult to look at without the bandage. Yet beyond these superficial changes, something else had changed. In her hand was still that white gauntlet, and her pale grey eyes were somber and cold. It was as if the rage from earlier had poured out of her, washed away with the blood and dirt, and in its place was winter’s lady.

“Robert wishes to see you,” Ned said softly. “Shall I bring him in?”

Lyanna glanced at him then looked away. “Does it matter if I say no?”

“Of course,” Ned said hurriedly, but winced at the lie. Robert would not easily take no for an answer.

“Bring him in,” Lyanna whispered. “Let him see what I did trying to avoid him.”

Ned did not inquire further. He returned outside, to an irate looking Robert. “Come in,” Ned said carefully.

Robert smoothed down his black hair, straightened to his full, towering height, and walked in as if he were trying to intimidate the room itself. Ned followed in quickly behind him, fearful and anxious of what might follow.

A silence was what they began with. Lyanna stared baldly into Robert’s face; Robert returned it with shock evident in his blue eyes, mouth slightly agape. Then, he finally said it:

“What happened to you?”

Ned did not wait to let Lyanna reply. “It was an accident, Robert. Brandon had meant to cut down Ser Arthur Dayne, but his blade cut Lyanna instead.”

“Ser Arthur Dayne?” Robert repeated, baffled at this detail. “Your brother did this to her?”

Ned nodded gravely.

“And her hair… who did that to her? The knight, or Rhaegar?”

“I did that to myself,” Lyanna spoke up in a small, hard voice.

Robert shook his head. “Speak the name of the kidnapper who did it to you. You would never do that to yourself.”

“Then you do not know me very well, my lord,” Lyanna returned cooly. “I was not kidnapped. I left willingly, and returned with Ser Arthur’s help.”

“Did they rape you?” Robert asked plainly, ignoring all that Lyanna said; he was angry, that much Ned could surmise, though at who he could not tell.

“You ask a personal question. You overstep, my lord.”

“You are my bride,” Robert returned between gritted teeth. “It is impossible for me to overstep.”

“We are not married yet. Nor will we ever be.” She shrugged. “I would rather die than marry you.” The plain stillness of her voice worried Ned, but made Robert more unhappy.

“And who are you to decide?” Robert snapped in turn. He took a step closer to Lyanna, and Ned held him back by the arm.

“What, will you have me?” she asked, eyebrows raised. There was almost a note of surprise in it, as if she was learning something new. “I am ugly and ruined, as you can see.”

Ned expected to hear Robert insist the opposite, yet his friend did not form the words. Ned looked at him curiously; the rage that had crackled around him had fizzled away. He only looked at Lyanna with an open, disappointed shock that dismayed Ned.

“Ned once told me you loved me,” Lyanna continued, the surprise gone as she returned to the previous cold, detached vein. “I told him that love was sweet, but it cannot change a man’s nature. I was wrong on that account, my lord. Love can change a man. But he must know love, not simply play at it.” She moved her grip to the fingers of the gauntlet. “You play at it, Robert, but I will not let you play it with me.”

That had been enough words for Robert. His friend left as stormy as he had entered it. Ned followed him, and grabbed him hard enough to stop him in his steps.

“Tell me I did not lie to my sister, Robert,” Ned demanded firmly. “If you love her, you will see her through this.”

“See her through?” Robert repeated with a laugh of disbelief. “That is not the Lyanna I knew. The Lyanna I knew was beautiful, and…”

“And what?”

Robert pulled his arm away. “If she’ll not have me, why should I have her? Look at her face, Ned. She’s different.”

“She is still Lyanna,” Ned insisted in turn.

Robert scoffed and shook his head. “You ask too much from me,” he said before he pulled away and left. Ned felt something like rage creep up his neck, warm and far-reaching. It struck him that there was a lack of honor in those around him, in Robert and in Brandon, in Prince Rhaegar too, perhaps even in father-- but no, it would do no good to judge the faults of others. What they did was their own folly; Ned could not change them.

He returned to the bedchamber, where Lyanna now laid on her side, that gauntlet now clutched to her chest. The iron in her had softened, and again there was a sorrow in her eyes.

“See?” Lyanna rasped once he had reentered. “Your dear friend thinks I am too ugly to love.”

“It doesn’t matter what you look like,” Ned insisted fiercely in turn. “You’re my sister, and I know your heart.”

Lyanna smiled weakly. “Dearest Ned,” she whispered. She reached out a hand and Ned took it gently, as he lowered himself in the seat at her bedside. He stared at the gauntlet at her chest, and wondered.

“Lyanna,” he said carefully. “What happened between you and Ser Arthur?”

She parted her lips to speak, then closed them again, once, then twice. “I do not think I could ever explain it,” she murmured. “But I will miss him for the rest of my days.”

“That is his gauntlet?”

She nodded. “Ned, promise me you will see his bones and Dawn returned to his family,” she murmured. “Do not let father change his mind and have someone else send them.”

Ned nodded. “I promise.”

“And should you ever hear a false word against him, please correct them. I’ll not have it said he treated me dishonorably. Promise me you’ll do that.”

“I promise, Lya.”

She squeezed his hand. “He was good, Ned. He cared for me.” She sniffled delicately. “If he had not spoken his truth, then Rhaegar…” She frowned deeper. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Go to sleep,” Ned urged her upon seeing how heavy her eyelids seemed to be. “You have had a long moon’s turn.”

“Yet I would live it all over again, save the last week. Is that strange?” She closed her eyes. “Can you stay until I fall asleep? I have not slept alone for some time.”

Ned kissed her hand. “Of course, Lya.”

He stayed that way for a long time, her hand in his, even long after she fell asleep.

 _How easy it is to go from the cusp of war and back again,_ he mused. _All it takes is one girl, and one man._

He looked upon the scab on his sister’s face, which traced her face like a brown mountain ridge upon a white map. The cut was deep; it was a miracle she did not lose a nose, or an eye. It was like a lesson in restraint, or perhaps in something darker. She was still beautiful, though. One only had to look a little deeper.

 _There are more important things,_ Ned reminded himself again. _Lyanna is back, and winter is coming._

Those were two certainties Ned Stark could live with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I have kept this ambiguous and open-ended on purpose, but no, there will be no sequel (sorry!).  
> 2) Sorry guys, I didn't update the archive warnings straight away bc I didn't want it to be spoiled as soon as I released the chapter. I'm adding it now, though!  
> 3) Thank you all for reading, please leave your comments and questions below and I'll do my best to answer them <3


	12. Playlist + A/N

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, this isn't a secret chapter! This is just me including the playlist I sort of put together when I first started writing this, and the songs I drew inspiration from. There's a few choice lyrics in there that really defined part of the story for me...
> 
> _I can see through you / We are the same / It's perfectly strange / You run in my veins / How can I keep you / Inside my lungs / I breathe what is yours / You breathe what is mine_ \--wolves without teeth by of monsters and men
> 
> _I'll keep you safe / You keep me strong [...] Are you wild like me? / Raised by wolves and other beasts_ \--bros by wolf alice
> 
> _Good God, under starless skies we are lost, / And into the breach we got tossed, / And the water's coming in fast! [...] And oh my love remind me, what was it that I said? / I can't help but pull the earth around me, to make my bed_ \--ship to wreck by florence and the machine
> 
> _Time stood still for a while / Your hand was holding mine / The stars that shined in your eyes / Don't let them go by / Fly on you golden girl / And take on your fears / I'll be with you in your dreams / The world is darker than it seems_ \--off to sleep by cœur de pirate
> 
> and the kicker...
> 
> _Troubled spirits on my chest / Where they laid to rest. / The birds all left my tall friend / As your body hit the sand_ \--you bones by of monsters and men
> 
> I also wanted to share a couple of quotes with you so you guys don't think I'm crazy for some of those Arthur lines I wrote:
> 
> _"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."_  
>  _"Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm._  
>  _"We swore a vow," explained old Ser Gerold._ \--Eddard X, AGoT  
>  _"I swore an oath to keep him safe," she said to Rhaegar's shade. "I swore a holy oath."_  
>  _"We all swore oaths," said Ser Arthur Dayne, so sadly._ \--Jaime VI, ASoS  
>  _Jaime had laid his sword across the Warrior's knees, piled his armor at his feet, and knelt upon the rough stone floor before the altar. When dawn came his knees were raw and bloody. "All knights must bleed, Jaime," Ser Arthur Dayne had said, when he saw. "Blood is the seal of our devotion." With dawn he tapped him on the shoulder; the pale blade was so sharp that even that light touch cut through Jaime's tunic, so he bled anew. He never felt it. A boy knelt; a knight rose. The Young Lion, not the Kingslayer._ \--Jaime I, AFFC  
>   
>  One of the reasons I wanted to write this and include Arthur's POV is to make that parallel to Jaime and his grappling with his vows. Like with this line:  
>   
>  _And me, that boy I was . . . when did he die, I wonder? When I donned the white cloak? When I opened Aerys's throat? That boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead._ Jaime VIII, ASoS  
>   
>  and the many other lines where Jaime idolizes and places Arthur on a pedestal, it made me keen to point out that Arthur was perhaps not the spotless knight Jaime believed him to be. It's easy to idealize dead people when you didn't know their secrets, and I'm willing to bet Arthur had many secrets, and I hope many regrets too.  
>   
> But anyways, this story was a joy to write, and I thank you all for reading :)

**Tracklist:**

monster - mumford & sons 

wolves without teeth - of monsters and men

first - cold war kids

bros - wolf alice

devil’s spoke - laura marling

ship to wreck - florence & the machine

wings - birdy

off to sleep - cœur de pirate

better love - hozier

your bones - of monsters and men

[Spotify Link](https://open.spotify.com/user/serenesh/playlist/2150F4kH9aifrHwIxdexxB)


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